Modernity and Spirit Worship

in India

This book investigates the entangled relations between people’s daily wor-
ship practices and their umwelt in South India. Focusing on the practices
of spirit (būta) worship in the coastal area of Karnataka, it examines the
relationship between people and deities.
Based on extensive fieldwork, this book links important anthropologi-
cal theories on personhood, perspectives, transactions, and gift-exchanges
together with the Gestaltkreis theory of Viktor von Weizsäcker. First, it ex-
amines the relations between būta worship and land tenure, matriliny, and
hierarchy in the society. It then explores the reflexive relationship between
modern law and current practices based on conventional law, before exam-
ining new developments in būta worship with the rise of mega-industries
and environmental movements. Furthermore, this book sheds light on the
struggles and endeavours of the people who create and recreate their rela-
tions with the realm of sacred wildness, as well as the formations and trans-
formations of the umwelt in perpetual social-political transition.
Modernity and Spirit Worship in India will be of interest to academics in
the field of anthropology, religious studies and the dynamics of religion, and
South Asian Culture and Society.

Miho Ishii is an associate professor at Kyoto University, Japan. Her current

research focus is on the relationship between spirit worship and environ-
mental movements in South India.
Routledge New Horizons in South Asian Studies
Series Editors: Crispin Bates, Edinburgh University; Akio Tanabe, Kyoto
University; Minoru Mio, National Museum of Ethnology, Japan

Democratic Transformation and the Vernacular Public Arena in India

Edited by Taberez Ahmed Neyazi, Akio Tanabe and Shinya Ishizaka

Cities in South Asia

Edited by Crispin Bates and Minoru Mio

Human and International Security in India

Edited by Crispin Bates, Akio Tanabe & Minoru Mio

Rethinking Social Exclusion in India

Castes, Communities and the State
Edited by Minoru Mio and Abhijit Dasgupta

Modernity and Spirit Worship in India

An Anthropology of the Umwelt
Miho Ishii

For a full list of titles please see https://www.routledge.com/Routledge-New-

Horizons-in-South-Asian-Studies/book-series/RNHSAS
Modernity and Spirit Worship
in India
An Anthropology of the Umwelt

Miho Ishii

LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published 2020
by Routledge
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© 2020 Miho Ishii
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been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
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Contents

List of illustrations vii

Preface ix

1 Introduction: towards an anthropology of the umwelt 1

PART ONE
Humans and the wild śakti of deities 33

2 The land of paddy fields, forests, and deities 35

3 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 48
4 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 60
5 Dances, oracles, and blessings in the ritual 70
6 The transaction of wild śakti 82
7 Playing with perspectives 94

PART TWO
Social transformations and the emergence of a new umwelt 107

8 Būta’s agency in conflicts over the village shrine 109

9 Historical changes in land tenure in South Kanara 135
10 Modern law, customary law, and the reflexive imagination 164
11 Land reforms and deities as the ‘owners of land’ 183
12 Būtas in the midst of the development project 209
vi Contents
13 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 236
14 Conclusion: being, pathos, and the umwelt 248

Glossary 263
Bibliography 275
Index 291
Illustrations

Figure
6.1 The transactional network between humans and būtas 87

Tables
2.1 The number of households based on religion in Mudu
Perar and Padu Perar 37
2.2 The number of households based on caste group in Mudu
Perar and Padu Perar 38
2.3 Land use in Perar 41
2.4 The crop calendar and yearly rituals in Perar 42
3.1 The prominent families in Perar in relation to būta worship 53
9.1 Land holding and land tax assessment of paṭṭadār in Mudu
Perar (Fasli 1312) 151
9.2 Caste/type of paṭṭadārs 152
9.3 Total number of registered paṭṭadārs corresponding to
assessed plots 153
9.4 Total number of registered paṭṭadārs belonging to Baṇṭa
(by family) 154
10.1 Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family property partition plan 177
11.1 Types of applicants and landlords 185
11.2 Types of Baṇṭa landlords 186
11.3 Types of land applied for rights in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 186
11.4 Caste/group of households and population 187
11.5 Number of (a) landlord households, (b) tenant households,
(c) domestic labourer households, and (d) other households
by caste/group 188
11.6 Families of Baṇṭa landlord households 189
11.7 Area of land holdings of landlord households (2008) 190
11.8 Classification of holdings of landlord households
according to manner of acquisition 190
11.9 Landlord households that lost land due to land reform 195
Preface

In a sense, this book follows an established line of anthropological prede-

cessors focusing on the dynamism of religious practices and/in modernity. It
is, after all, primarily a book about būta (or spirit) worship in South Kanara,
a coastal area in Karnataka, India. Būtas are generally considered to be
deities or spirits that dwell in forests and embody the realm of sacred wild-
ness. In this book, I investigate the endeavours and struggles of people in
village communities, who create and recreate their relations with the realm
of sacred wildness through transactions with būtas, amidst social-political
transitions such as colonisation, changes in land tenure systems, and devel-
opment of mega-industries.
However, I also attempt to introduce a novel twist to this anthropological
genre. The theoretical core of this book is the notion of the umwelt pre-
sented by Viktor von Weizsäcker, who uniquely developed Jakob von Uex-
küll’s ideas on the existence of entangled and inseparable relations between
an organism and its environment. By linking anthropological theories on
personhood, perspective, transactions, and gift-exchanges to the theory of
the umwelt, I attempt to consider the relations among villagers, land, na-
ture, and būtas as part of the dynamic and creative interactions between
humans and their life-worlds, including nonhumans.
If this book successfully presents a perspective that exceeds, even a little,
the limits of a monograph sticking to its discipline and geographical field, I
owe it to the members of a research project titled ‘Kansekai no Jinbungaku
(The Studies of Umwelten)’, undertaken at the Institute for Research in the
Humanities, Kyoto University, since 2015. Discussions and conversations
with colleagues from various academic backgrounds in the course of this
project provided great inspiration in the writing of this book.
These discussions also inspired an earlier version of this volume pub-
lished in Japanese under the title, ‘Kansekai no Jinruigaku: Minami Indo ni
­okeru Yasei, Kindai, Shinreisaishi (An Anthropology of the Umwelt: Wildness,
­Modernity, and Spirit Worship in South India)’, by Kyoto University Press in
2017. Though the core of the argument has remained consistent, through the
long process of rewriting, this volume has become not a mere translation,
but a fresh creation. I deeply thank Dr Masakazu Tanaka, my colleague
x Preface
and former supervisor, for his precious comments on the earlier version of
this book.
Drs Crispin Bates, Akio Tanabe, and Minoru Mio, the series editors of
Routledge New Horizons in South Asian Studies, gave me great support
from the earliest to the final stages of publication of this book. Without their
support and encouragement, it would not have been possible for me to com-
plete this work. Nick Kasparek and Dr Yumiko Tokita-Tanabe made great
efforts to improve the quality of this book. Their sensitive and deep knowl-
edge of English greatly helped me construct the whole argument in English.
I am also very grateful to the editors at Routledge, Dorothea Schaefter and
Alexandra de Brauw, for their support in the publication of this volume.
After completing my doctoral and postdoctoral research on spirit wor-
ship in Ghana, I first visited South India in 2008, in search of a new field site.
It was Dr Chinnappa Gowda at Mangaluru University who first introduced
me to the fertile world of būta worship in South Kanara. Since the start of
my fieldwork, Akshaya Shetty, her mother Baarati, and her father Harisha
always provided me with warm and generous support. Vidya Dinker not
only gave me wise advice, but also instilled the courage I needed to pursue
difficult tasks in the field. Without their support and friendship, I could not
have accomplished my research.
Finally, I would like to thank Kenta Funahashi and our two daughters,
Hina and Sui. They accompanied me on my fieldtrips and shared my joy and
wonder through the entire process. They provided me with great inspiration
and encounters that would not have been possible if I were alone in the field.
Therefore, I would like to dedicate this book, a fruit of our collaborative
field life, to them.
Some of the chapters in this book are based on previously published pa-
pers. All have been extensively revised for the present volume. An early ver-
sion of Chapter 6 was published as a paper entitled ‘Wild sacredness and the
poiesis of transactional networks: Relational divinity and spirit possession
in the būta ritual of South India’ in Asian Ethnology in 2015. Chapter 7 is
based on a paper entitled ‘Playing with perspectives: Spirit possession, mi-
mesis, and permeability in the buuta ritual in South India’ published in Jour-
nal of the Royal Anthropological Institute in 2013. Chapter 10 partly overlaps
with a paper entitled ‘Traces of reflexive imagination: Matriliny, modern
law, and spirit worship in South India’ published in Asian Anthropology in
2014. Chapter 12 is based on conference papers presented at the ninth and
tenth International Convention of Asia Scholars (ICAS) in 2015 and 2017.
Chapter 13 has evolved from the papers below: ‘The chiasm of machines and
spirits: Būta worship, megaindustry, and embodied environment in South
India’ published in 2014 in a volume entitled Ecologies of Care: Innovations
through Technologies, Collectives and the Senses, edited by Gergely Mohácsi;
‘The ecology of transaction: Dividual persons, spirits, and machinery in a
special economic zone in South India’ published in NatureCulture in 2015;
and ‘Caring for divine infrastructures: Nature and spirits in a special eco-
nomic zone in India’, which appeared in Ethnos in 2017.
 Preface xi
The research on which this volume is based was financially supported by
Japan Society for the Promotion of Science (JSPS KAKENHI Grant N­ umbers
21720321, 24251017, and 26370949).

Miho Ishii
Kyoto
July 2019
1 Introduction
Towards an anthropology of
the umwelt

In the month of māyi during the hottest and driest season, būta rituals
are held in many villages in South Kanara, a coastal area in Karnataka.1
­Accompanied by drums and wind instruments played by Puruṣa musicians,
spirit mediums of the Pambada or Nalike castes dance around the precincts
of local shrines, issue oracles, and interact with people.
As apotheosised local heroes or heroines or as the spirits of wild animals
dwelling in forests, būtas are generally regarded as deities. While būtas may
travel across regions, they are generally believed to be closely linked to the
land and nature of localities. Though normally invisible, their power, or
śakti,2 fills the deep forests, hangs over the bush and ponds, and circulates
through the woods, agricultural fields, and villages. Consequently, būtas are
considered to originate from—and embody—a realm of sacred wildness.
Fieldwork for this monograph was mainly carried out in the two adjoin-
ing villages of Mudu Perar and Padu Perar in Mangaluru taluk, Dakshina
Kannada district.3 Until administratively separated in 1904, these villages
used to be a single entity called ‘Perar’, and are still collectively called ‘Perar’
by the villagers.4
In Perar, būta rituals are conducted in the geographical area that con-
sists of houses surrounded by paddy fields, palm and areca nut farms,
and deep forests and hills. As will be elaborated upon later, būta rituals
are closely related to the ranks and duties of families, matriliny, and land
­tenure. In village society, būta worship is a sophisticated system that links
people to land and nature. Embodying the realm of the wild,5 būtas medi-
ate the relationships villagers have with fields and forests, and būta rituals
facilitate the smooth succession of both lands and offices within families.
Moreover, through the transaction of offerings and blessings (prasāda)6
in rituals, the būtas authorise the hierarchies and relations among village
families.
Direct encounters and interactions between people and deities is an
­essential element of būta worship. Villagers directly present offerings at
­altars and small shrines in their houses, and they receive oracles and bless-
ings from possessed mediums at village shrines. While būta śakti is gener-
ally perceived as an invisible, fertile, and dangerous power that influences
2 Introduction
the lives and destinies of villagers, through spirit possession it can also tran-
siently manifest in dreadful, androgynous forms.
Drawing on the results of my observations of everyday practices in vil-
lages and considering villager relations with what they characterise as ‘the
wild’, a realm actualised through interactions with būtas, this book explores
how all these various relations create and recreate the social, religious, and
ecological milieu, or in effect the umwelt, of village residents.
Before examining the notion of the umwelt in detail, it should be noted
that rather than being static, the village communities studied in this book
have been constantly adapting to changes since time immemorable. As de-
scribed later, since the nineteenth century, rural society in South Kanara
has been transformed through the development and penetration of modern
legal and administrative systems. Since the mid-1990s, massive development
projects in Mangaluru have also caused disruptive changes in rural areas,
including the destruction of farmland and the eviction of villagers from the
land they had farmed or otherwise had access to. Faced with these changes
which can generally be called ‘modernisation’, people have tried to maintain
or recreate their way of life by reorganising their relationships with others
and by negotiating with strangers. Entangled as they are with various in-
tentions and social relations, these endeavours are beset with conflict and
difficulty. Moreover, for the villagers, relationships with būtas have always
been central to their practices and decision-making. These relationships
help them confront the challenge of incessant social change, both to keep
what they have and to leverage the transitions as opportunities.
When we investigate the mutual formation and transformation of people’s
everyday practices and their umwelt in their reflexive interactions with mod-
ern laws and systems as well as in transactions with the realm the wild and
deities, three mutually entangled subjects of study become clear: humans, the
wild, and modernity. In the following section, I will examine previous studies
that have focused on modernity and the occult, as well as on ontology.

Theories of modernity and the occult

Magical-religious phenomena such as witchcraft, magic, and spirit pos-
session have long been important subjects in anthropology, and since the
1980s, many writers have considered how the occult in non-Western socie-
ties relates to modernity (e.g. Comaroff 1985; Geschiere 1997; Comaroff &
Comaroff 1999).7
In his early work, Taussig analysed Bolivian miners’ worship of Tio, the
spirit owner of the tin mines, as a cultural response of neophyte proletarians
towards the capitalist mode of production. According to Taussig, peasants
working in the mines understood wage labour and the new socio-economic
system as evil and unnatural, and the devil figure of Tio strikingly articu-
lated this interpretation. Devil worship thus represented both the predica-
ment of the peasants and their critical consciousness and struggle against
 Introduction 3
the exploitative modern capitalist economy (Taussig 1980, pp. 17–22, 144–
145, 232–233).
Geschiere, by posing the idea of ‘the modernity of witchcraft’, has also
presented a fresh viewpoint for analysing the relationship between moder-
nity and the occult. According to Geschiere, in postcolonial Cameroon
and other African societies, discourses about witchcraft have burgeoned in
modern sectors such as politics, sports, institutions of formal education,
and so forth. Such rumours and discourses expose concern about the prolif-
eration of novel forms of witchcraft, but they also reveal the popular interest
in various hidden opportunities to acquire and accumulate new forms of
wealth. In Africa, rumours and practices related to witchcraft are evidence
of people’s efforts to interpret changes brought by modernity and to gain
control over them. Thus, Geschiere argues that we should focus on the ‘mo-
dernity’ of witchcraft, rather than considering witchcraft in contraposition
to modernity (Geschiere 1997, pp. 1–9; Ciekawy & Geschiere 1998).
Likewise, using the concept of ‘occult economies’, Comaroff and Co-
maroff (1999) analysed the relation between the rise of occult phenomena
and social economic conditions in postcolonial South Africa, where there
has been a dramatic rise in fear and suspicion of occult phenomena such as
witchcraft, Satanism, zombies, and ritual murder. According to the Coma-
roffs, these occult phenomena express the discontent and despair of people
distressed by the mysterious mechanisms of the global market economy,
but they are also symptoms of an occult economy waxing behind the civil
surfaces of the ‘new’ South Africa. The practice of witchcraft and other
mystical arts in postcolonial Africa was ‘a mode of producing new forms of
consciousness; of expressing discontent with modernity and dealing with
its deformities’ (Comaroff & Comaroff 1999, p. 284, emphasis in original).
Focusing on modernity and the occult in non-Western societies, many
observers argue along the same lines. When discussing transformations of
traditional societies under the pressure of modernisation, people’s occult
practices are held to be significant in modern situations. They are often inter-
preted as distinctive responses to, or critiques of, changing social conditions.
Such an analytical frame may be embedded in the conventional meth-
ods and practices of anthropology, wherein anthropologists from Western
societies have long felt impelled to study ‘pre-modern’ occult practices in
non-Western societies and to publish the results to their own reading pub-
lic. In this context, magical-religious phenomena such as witchcraft, magic,
and spirit possession in non-Western societies have often been collectively
regarded as a reference point not only to antithetically define ‘the modern
West’, but also to disclose what ails the West through difference or meta-
phoric connection. Regarding this, Sanders wrote,

Anthropologists have thus foregrounded resistance and critique in

many forms, from large-scale revolts and revolutions to their everyday
and more spectral manifestations. Anthropological explanations here
4 Introduction
suggest that occult forces and discourses can be seen as offering a sus-
tained critique of the genesis or intensification of capitalism, modernity,
neoliberalism and globalization, specifically, of the novel inequalities
and exploitations these things engender. Through the occult, the argu-
ment goes, Others in faraway places expose unsettling truths about our
contemporary world and its woeful workings.
(Sanders 2008, p. 111)

Perhaps it was inevitable that anthropologists—tasked with studying the

lives of non-Westerners and representing values and logics different from
those in the West—would tend to analyse magical-religious practices in
non-Western societies as critiques of or alternatives to a value system based
on rationality, individualism, material possession, market economy, ex-
change value, and concepts understood to constitute modernity. Similar in-
terpretations of the occult, however, predate anthropology and were already
in evidence in mid-seventeenth-century Europe:

Discourses and legal actions naming and constraining “spirit posses-

sion” over the past four centuries helped to create the dual notions of the
rational individual and the civil subject of modern states. The silhouette
of the propertied citizen and free individual took form between the idea
of the automaton—a machine-body without will—and the threat of the
primitive or animal, bodies overwhelmed by instincts and passions.
(Johnson 2011, p. 396)

Johnson observed that according to the early modern philosophy of Europe,

a person in the modern West who was overwhelmed by spirit possession was
seen as the inverse of the rational, autonomous individual. This tendency to
compare and contrast images of the self in Western and non-Western socie-
ties has persisted in recent studies of spirit possession and personhood. For
instance, Smith (2006, pp. 19, 74–75) argues that spirit possession, as the ex-
posure of the fluid and permeable nature of personal identity, coincides with
features of South Asian personhood, which are fluid, divisible, and perme-
able. Here the possessed, or indeed the South Asian person, is construed in
contrast with the ideal, autonomous, Western person.
More recently, however, interpretations of occult practices have gone be-
yond the simple inversion of idealised images of society and personhood in
the modern West; rather, occult practices are now seen as exposing ‘unsettling
truths about our contemporary world and its woeful workings’ (Sanders 2008,
p. 111) or as critiques of modern Western values which presume the impor-
tance of individualism and material possessions (see Johnson 2011, p. 417).
Since the 1990s, when new notions such as the ‘modernity of witchcraft’
and ‘occult economies’ were introduced by some anthropologists, it has be-
come common to interpret informant discourse on the occult as evidence
of ambivalent attitudes towards modernity. For example, analysing occult
 Introduction 5
narratives of the Mawri about roads in postcolonial Niger in terms of the
materialisation of people’s experience of modernity, Masquelier argues that
roads are part of a complex economy of violence, power, and blood—­objects
of both fascination and terror. Thus, their tales linking roads with the occult
should be understood as ‘creative efforts to articulate local understandings
of mobility, morality, and marketing in all their literal and metaphorical
meanings’, which brings to light people’s troubled encounters with moder-
nity (Masquelier 2002, pp. 829, 831–834).8
These recent studies have examined new dimensions and meanings of the
occult in non-Western societies by considering it in relation to comprehen-
sive modern phenomena, such as globalisation and neoliberalism. Even so,
taking the occult in non-Western societies as a reference point that both
enables a definition of what is modern and Western and provides an op-
portunity to critique problems with the West, most writers are still tied to
the general viewpoint of previous studies. In other words, magical-religious
practices in non-Western societies continue to be analysed in terms of their
relation with, and response to, powers and social economic changes origi-
nating in the West. Such an analytical framework has led some anthropol-
ogists to refer to the occult too generally, without a deep analysis of the
particular history, specificity, and locality of each phenomenon.9
Moreover, as is obvious in discussions of occult economies (Comaroff &
Comaroff 1999), studies of the occult in a non-Western context tend to as-
sume that the modern values and systems that cause radical change in local
society are beyond the understanding of local people, and consequently, oc-
cult practices are an imaginative expression of people metaphorically inter-
preting these changes. Framing magical-religious practices as imaginative
interpretations or metaphorical critiques of modernity seems to obscure an
understanding of how these practices are entangled with modern values and
systems in concrete situations.
Before considering this aspect in more detail, in the next section I will
examine a recent trend in anthropology which also focuses on magical-­
religious phenomena in non-Western societies, but provides different ideas
and methods for their analysis.

Ontological questions and ‘the reality of the other’

Since the end of the 1990s, a host of new anthropological studies conducted
through the lens of ontology have been published. Researchers have turned to
ontology in order to criticise the anthropocentrism of modern social science
and to complicate and invert the nature–culture dichotomy and its assump-
tions of the universality of nature and particularity of culture. To transcend
these issues, multinaturalism, radical essentialism, the ontological self-­
determination of the other, and other alternative frames have been proposed.
Leaving aside the varied anthropological studies approaching ontology
through philosophy, phenomenology, and science and technology studies,10
6 Introduction
in this section I will mainly examine the arguments ­concerning what has
been called the ‘ontological turn’ in anthropology (Henare, ­Holbraad &
Wastell 2007). It should be noted that the theoretical trend examined here,
hereafter called the OT, does not cover all anthropological works that are
‘ontologically attuned’ (Kohn 2015, p. 323), that is say, that deal with onto-
logical questions as an underlying theme; rather, this section is more nar-
rowly concerned with recent discussions of the ontological turn.11
In addition to criticising the modern dichotomy of nature and culture,
advocates of the OT also see it as means of freeing anthropology from the
shackles of epistemology. Since the goal is ‘taking things encountered in the
field as they present themselves’ (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, p. 2),
proponents of the OT take issue with focusing epistemologically merely on
people’s worldviews and with the reductionism entailed in describing field-
work observations through modern rationality. Accordingly, following the
OT, rather than elaborating on worldviews, anthropologists should engage
with the ontology of the people in the field. Consequently, peoples who are
assumed to have different ontologies, such as Euro-Americans and Amer-
indians, are understood as not just perceiving the same world in different
ways, but as living in different worlds (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007,
pp. 10–12; Holbraad 2009). In the OT, the concept of ‘ontology’ thus sug-
gests a multiplicity of worlds and is inseparable from difference and alterity
(see Gad, Jensen & Winthereik 2015, p. 70). Here, these concepts do not
refer to epistemological differences between worldviews, but are reserved
for denoting ontological differences between lived worlds. A central tenet
is radical alterity (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, p. 8), which cannot
be reduced to modern rationality. Proponents of the OT often use magical-­
religious discourses and practices in the field as their main evidence of this
radical alterity, focusing on myths, divination, animism, shamanism, and
other things which have been looked upon as ‘apparently irrational beliefs’
(Sperber 1982).12
While the way the OT focuses on magical-religious practices in non-­
Western societies may seem similar to conventional approaches in the an-
thropology of religion, there are some critical differences between them.
As seen in discussions of rationality,13 most previous studies have tried in
various ways to portray beliefs and practices in non-Western societies both
as some variety of distinctive logic or function incompatible with modern
rationality and as rationally apprehensible by Westerners despite their
uniqueness. By contrast, proponents of the OT are critical of such attempts
to transform the phenomena of a different ontological world into something
else by interpretation and rationalisation.
The starting point of the OT—to take things in the field as they are—
is motivated by an advocacy of ‘the ontological self-determination of the
world’s peoples’ (Viveiros de Castro 2003, 2011a, 2014a). In other words, the
OT does not attempt to interpret or represent its objects of study; rather,
it wants to leave room for the people themselves. Specifically, Viveiros de
 Introduction 7
Castro has stated that, since the ontological turn, anthropology is obliged to
‘make room for the other’, that is, to create the conditions for the ontological
self-determination of the other. For him, the role of anthropology ‘is not
that of explaining the world of the other, but rather of multiplying our world’,
and as such, anthropologists should avoid ‘explain[ing] too much’ or ‘try[ing]
to actualise the possibilities immanent to others’ thought’, but instead, ‘en-
deavour to sustain [these possibilities] as possible indefinitely’ (Viveiros de
Castro 2014a; see also Holbraad, Pedersen & Viveiros de Castro 2014).

Critiques of the OT
The fresh, radical ideas of the OT have greatly influenced academia. This
stimulation has also given rise to criticism. While most commentators ap-
preciate the endeavour to reconsider the modernist view of humans and the
nature–culture dichotomy, they question notions such as radical essential-
ism and ontological alterity, and also wonder about the methodology of tak-
ing things in the field as they are.
For instance, expanding on his argument supporting the motion tabled
at a debate on anthropological theory that ‘ontology is just another word
for culture’ (Venkatesan 2010), Candea pointed out that ‘many accounts of
ontology specify as their subjects human populations, broadly geographi-
cally conceived’ (177), and that the outline of disparate ontologies tends to
map onto what would previously have been called cultural groups. Thus, the
idea of ontological alterity is not free from the ‘difficult conundrums which
dogged the anthropological study of cultural difference’ (Venkatesan 2010,
p. 179; see also Laidlaw 2012).
Vigh and Sausdal (2014) have also criticised the OT notion of ‘radical
alterity’ owing to the methodological problems of translation and com-
munication it brings, and because it diminishes the possibility of mutual
understanding across ontologies. They also wonder how it could be possible
to take things in the field as they are. By promoting the idea of accepting,
without interpretation, what people tell us about their world, they say that
the OT ‘becomes an argument for pure indexicality with an almost one-
to-one relationship between signifiés and signifiants’ (Vigh & Sausdal 2014,
p. 61). Consequently, this kind of ‘ontic’ argument that ‘things are what they
are’ can be fundamentally undermined ‘by people’s frequently expressed
doubt and ambivalence about the nature of the real they inhabit’ (Vigh &
Sausdal 2014, pp. 56–57, 61; see also Graeber 2015).
Gad, Jensen, and Winthereik (2015, pp. 73–75) have similarly pointed
out that while proponents of the OT insist on the importance of ‘things’
to understand the ontological world of the other, they largely rely on dis-
courses recorded during fieldwork or culled from other sources. The precept
of ‘taking things in the field as they are’ may help researchers avoid con-
jectures and interpretations, but this approach also encourages researchers
to take the discourses of their informants at face value and to regard their
8 Introduction
accounts as indicators of a unique ontology (Graeber 2015, p. 20).14 It is also
suggested that these problems are rooted in the premises of the OT, which
assumes that people in a particular locality partake of a unique ontology
and asserts the importance of ontological self-determination and the value
of indefinitely sustaining the world of the other (see Venkatesan 2010, pp.
172–179; Graeber 2015).

How can we understand the ontological reality of the other?

As mentioned above, one of the critical points raised by arguments about
the OT is how anthropologists should deal with the ontological reality of the
other. This issue poses a long-standing fundamental question in a fresh way:
what kinds of anthropological enquiry and description are possible when
one is faced with realities that seem incompatible with modern rationality?
To understand the directions that the OT might take anthropological theory
regarding this question, it is necessary first to examine alterity and difference
in more detail.
When proponents of the OT use ‘radical alterity’ and ‘different ontology’,
alterity means alterity to modern rationality and difference refers to differ-
ence from modern Western ontology. This is evident when Viveiros de Castro
writes that ontology came to the fore at a moment when ‘the ontological
foundations of our civilisation—and the unquestioned cultural supremacy
of the peoples who founded it—are seen as starting to crumble’ (Viveiros
de Castro 2014a). In other words, at a time of crisis, the ontological gaze
fell on those seen as generating realities other than those of the modern
Western world. Similarly, Vigh and Sausdal (2014) point out that propo-
nents of the OT define alterity and difference in relation to the notion of ‘the
Euro-American’:

The notion of ‘the Euro-American’ appears to be essential for the onto-

logical turn as it frames the ontographer’s object of study by providing
the background against which ontology and alterity can be defined.
(Vigh & Sausdal 2014, p. 66, emphasis original)

As discussed in the previous section, in anthropological studies of religion,

the occult in non-Western societies has often been analysed contrastively
or metaphorically as a point of reference for defining ‘the modern West’. At
the same time, by interpreting the occult in non-Western societies in terms
of modernity, these studies tend to reproduce an analytical framework that
highlights the influence of power and systems from the West and presents
the occult as an alternative to them.
In contrast, while the ontology of ‘the other’ in the OT, exemplified by
occult practices in the field, is similarly demarcated by reference to, and
defined through difference from, notions such as ‘the Euro-American’, it is
never interpreted in relation to modernity or the Euro-American, but rather
 Introduction 9
is conserved as it is. In other words, proponents of the OT try to avoid trans-
forming the ontology they find in the field—the reality of the other—into
something else, and thereby reducing it to modern rationality. Presenting
the occult as a defining feature of local life, they also refrain from analysing
the occult as a mere response to modernity.
In this light, Pedersen (2011) criticises the ‘modernity of witchcraft’
(Geschiere 1997), ‘occult economies’ (Comaroff & Comaroff 1999), and
other symbolic-functionalistic characterisations in previous studies, and at-
tempts to describe shamanism in Mongolia in a different way:

Darhad shamanism, and particularly in its variations “without sha-

mans,” is not an occult economy “of” postsocialist transition; it “is” a
distinct ontological condition in its own right.
(Pedersen 2011, p. 40)

Here, it is worth noting that proponents of the OT do not try to describe

the ontology of the people in the field as a static cosmos separate from the
outside world. Pedersen (2011), for instance, focuses on the relationship
between shamanism and drastic social and political changes in northern
Mongolia. Yet for Pedersen, Darhad shamanism is not something that only
symbolises the local response or resistance to social change; rather, it is a
fluid and multiple ‘ontology of transition’, just as post-socialist Mongolian
society is (2011, pp. 35, 79).
Such arguments seem to succeed in proposing an alternative to the
symbolic-functionalist views of previous studies. Even so, by representing
shamanistic practices as the ontology of the other, a reality too fluid and
indefinite to be captured by modern rationality, it repeats the conventional
interpretations of the occult in non-Western societies as that which has es-
caped the influence of colonial and postcolonial states, and that which re-
sists the categories of Western social science (e.g. Comaroff 1985, p. 263;
Rosenthal 1998).15
To reiterate, while attending to social change, proponents of the OT at-
tempt to describe the phenomena in the field as ontologically discrete, as
things to be taken on their own terms without being reduced to responses
to, or resistance against, modern social changes. This effort by proponents
of the OT to take things in the field seriously, to restrain investigators from
explaining phenomena using their own theoretical frames, and to make
one’s own world multiple by exploring the world of the other has been of
great import in recent anthropology.
Proponents of the OT seem to take a position similar to that of the ‘rela-
tivists’ in the rationality debate (see Tambiah 1990), who asserted that no-
tions in modern rationality could be revised and expanded by understanding
the thought of non-Western peoples.16 The OT is more radical, however, in
that proponents attempt to take alterity, which is regarded as incompati-
ble with modern rationality, as it is without trying to render it into what is
10 Introduction
understandable for people in the West (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007,
pp. 11–12; cf. Viveiros de Castro 2004a).
Meanwhile, the endeavours in the OT to emphasise the importance of the
‘ontological self-determination of the world’s peoples’ and strive for a ‘per-
manent decolonization of thought’ (Viveiros de Castro 2011a; Holbraad,
Pedersen & Viveiros de Castro 2014), along with criticisms of excessive in-
terference in the ontological world of the other, seem to indicate a sort of
strategic essentialism (Gad, Jensen & Winthereik 2015, p. 78; see also Ven-
katesan 2010, pp. 172–179; Candea 2011). Few would deny the ethical merits
of this stance, especially when we reflect on how anthropological research
represents the lives of local people in places where pervasive power, values,
and systems serve to strengthen the hegemony of the West. The appeal of
this ethical impulse is all the more reason to carefully examine the issues
arising in the attempt to find radical alterity in the magical-religious prac-
tices of the people that anthropologists study and to describe them as indi-
cators of a radically different ontology. In the next section, focusing on the
notion of existence, or being, I will consider in more detail relations between
modernity and magical-religious phenomena.

Rethinking being/existence
As suggested in the previous section, proponents of the OT have often fo-
cused on magical-religious practices in their fieldwork, and then character-
ised them as ontologically unique and incompatible with Western ontology.
Critics have pointed out that this approach may lead to an emphasis on
those parts of discourse and practice that suggest alterity, a simplification
of people’s realities due to an insufficient grasp of complicated relationships
involving various differences and divisions in their lives, and a blindness to
ambiguities in the realities in life as it is lived (Venkatesan 2010, pp. 172–179;
Candea 2011; Vigh & Sausdal 2014; Graeber 2015).
Furthermore, by presuming that the people under study live in a radi-
cally different ontological world, the OT severely limits analysis of how peo-
ple engage with ‘modern’ systems and orders. The previous section of this
chapter cited recent anthropological studies of religion in which the occult
was characterised as a means of imaginative interpretation of modern situ-
ations beyond the common knowledge of its practitioners (e.g. Comaroff &
­Comaroff 1999; Masquelier 2002). Taking issue with this, proponents of the
OT consider the occult as evidence of worlds based on unique, radically dif-
ferent ontologies. In privileging alterity, however, proponents of the OT pay
insufficient attention not only to how people engage with systems, logics,
and ways of life that embody ideas and values predominant in the West, but
especially to how magical-religious practices and ‘modern rationality’ are
entangled with each other.17
Rather than essentially unknowable, ontologically different worlds, what
most anthropologists encounter during their fieldwork today seem more
 Introduction 11
likely to be situations in which familiar modern Western logics, values,
styles, and systems have permeated and now significantly constitute people’s
everyday lives. This is not to say that a coherent ‘modern rationality’ unilat-
erally blankets their lives or that in their engagement with change, everyone
or anyone completely ‘gets with the program’. Rather, local people adapt to
changing circumstances with logics, values, and ideas that mesh with mod-
ern rationality and that have the power to create and recreate the realities
of people. We see evidence of this in objects, concrete systems, plans, vo-
cabularies, styles, and social relations. Meanwhile, logics, values, and ideas
that differ from modern rationality are also locally embodied in objects,
concrete systems, vocabularies, social relations, and behaviours, and these
continue to have a role in creating and recreating local reality.
In such circumstances, people may hold and situationally switch between
multiple logics, values, and modes of being, and also coordinate and recon-
stitute relations with others to maintain and recreate their lives. Magical-­
religious practices and narratives, which have been regarded in the OT as at
the core of different ontologies, are not outside the processes of reconstitu-
tion and transformation; rather, they are key focal points of these processes.
And if people do create and recreate their lives in processes that are entan-
gled in various logics, values, and modes of being that together comprise the
lived ‘reality’ of people, anthropologists should then carefully observe and
ethnographically describe those processes. Important elements such as these
evade ontography, the attempt to record worlds that are based solely on rad-
ically different ontological premises. At the same time, no careful ethnogra-
pher would simply assume that logics, values, and modes of being familiar
in the modern West are totally harmonious or commensurable with those
encountered during fieldwork. The aim of ethnography is instead to present
processes in which multiple logics, values, and modes of being—each with its
own different history and impetus—are embodied and expressed in different
systems and social relations, and to describe how they encounter each other,
conflict, and interrelate, while they nonetheless continue to diverge from each
other and retain discrepancies. The ethnographer also aims to describe the
diverse actions and relationships of the people who are involved in v­ arious
conflicts and entanglements, and to understand the thoughts and emotions
arising from these actions, relationships, conflicts, and entanglements.
From this perspective, the lives of the local people studied by anthropol-
ogists can be seen as involving both constraints and contingency, as they
­constantly shift between several modes of being with different logics, ­values,
and histories. This perspective urges us to analyse the processes that form
and transform the lives of local people in their encounters and interactions
with various others. The ends of this analysis thus differ from those of the
OT, which assumes that the people in the field always confront indefinite
contingency, or live in a unique ontological world that enables them to form
and transform themselves through a unique relationship with others (e.g.
Viveiros de Castro 2004b).
12 Introduction
Furthermore, to deeply comprehend the relational and variable dimen-
sions of people’s lives—another goal mentioned by proponents of the OT,
that is, the relation to the other and alterity from oneself (Viveiros de Castro
2011b; Holbraad, Pedersen & Viveiros de Castro 2014)—it is necessary to
reconsider the central notion of being, or existence, which has moved into
the limelight through an accumulation and circulation of arguments in the
OT. In the following section, I will therefore consider this concept from a
different angle.

The constraints and contingency of life: rethinking being/existence

Intending to take seriously the things they find in the field, proponents of the
OT set out to describe—as they are, without reductive interpretation—the
ontological worlds in which magical-religious phenomena such as spirits,
deities, and witchcraft can exist. Then, through the repetition and circula-
tion of arguments arising from this intent, they performatively centralise
the notion of being, or existence, in their ontographic anthropology. The
relationship between reality and virtuality in the OT illustrates this point.
Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell (2007) have declared that one of the sig-
nificant methodological propositions of the OT is to ‘take things in the field
as they are’. Here, things are not merely tangible objects, but also concepts.
For instance, when a Cuban diviner says that the powder used in a séance
is power, rather than interpret the statement as a peculiar cultural belief,
it is important to view the powder as actual power. When adopting this
­radical constructivist approach, no ontological distinction is made between
­discourse and reality or concepts and things:

We argue that in order for difference to be taken seriously (as ‘alterity’),

the assumption that concepts are ontologically distinct from the things
to which they are ordinarily said to ‘refer’ must be discarded. From this
it follows that alterity can quite properly be thought of as a property of
things—things, that is, which are concepts as much as they appear to us
as ‘material’ or ‘physical’ entities.
(Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, p. 13, emphasis in original)

In the OT, the world in which powder is power is not a new fantastical region
of ‘our own’ world (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, p. 12); it is simply a
different world. Moreover, proponents argue that to form a conception of
a different powder (or a different world) is to actually conceive it, to think
it into being. When the distinction between things and concepts collapses,
‘thought here just is being’, and ‘conception is a mode of disclosure that cre-
ates its own objects’ (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, pp. 14–15). There-
fore, when we conceive of a different powder, we create thing-concepts such
as ‘powerful powder’, as does the Cuban diviner who creates new objects by
enunciating new concepts (Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007, pp. 3–6, ­12–15;
see also Holbraad 2007, 2012, pp. 157–161; Holbraad & Pedersen 2017).
 Introduction 13
Such assertions in the OT clearly challenge previous rationalistic ap-
proaches to ‘apparently irrational belief’ taken as simply unrealistic fan-
tasy. By reiterating such assertions, however, proponents of the OT seek
to take each thing and each notion encountered in the field into the sphere
of being. While remaining virtual and indefinite for ‘us’, these things are
considered to be extant forces or entities to the extent that they are consid-
ered by the ontographer to really exist for the people (see Viveiros de Castro
2011a, 2013, 2014a).
On this point, through comparison with the traditional use of the term
ontology, Graeber (2015) has drawn attention to the distinctive use of the
notion in the OT. He explains that, in ancient Greek, the word meant ‘a
discourse (logos) about the nature of being’, and that this has remained the
core meaning; for ontographers, however, it is used as a synonym for ‘way
of being’ or ‘manner of being’ (Graeber 2015, p. 15). Similarly, Vigh and
Sausdal have pointed out that the meanings of ontic and ontological are
conflated in the arguments of the OT; even while emphasising the notion
of virtuality based on Deleuze, proponents of the OT are mostly indifferent
to the perils of essentialising objects by defining what ‘is’ (Vigh & Sausdal
2014, pp. 51, 63).
As discussed earlier, proponents of the OT assert that anthropologists
should, indefinitely and as far as possible, maintain the ontological world
of the other as the potential for how things could be otherwise (Viveiros de
Castro 2011a, 2014a; Holbraad, Pedersen & Viveiros de Castro 2014). As
Vigh and Sausdal (2014) observe, this intention seems to conflict with taking
things in the field as they are and describing them in the ontic state of what
is, as opposed to what might be.
In the OT, however, these two intentions do not necessarily pull in dif-
ferent directions. By way of illustration, in Viveiros de Castro’s discussion
of Amerindian perspectivism, he observes that the statement ‘animals are
people’ often occurs in Amazonian ethnographies. In the world of the in-
digenous people described in these ethnographies, a jaguar might regard
itself as a human and see humans as animals (i.e. as prey). At the same time,
an ordinary human regards itself as a human, and sees animals as animals
(Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2014b, pp. 56–57). From the ordinary human per-
spective, the world seen by a jaguar is potentially an alternative world, a
world in which a human cannot directly live.
In Viveiros de Castro’s work, corresponding to the relationship between
humans and animals in Amerindian ontology, the relationship between ‘we’
in the modern West and ‘they’ as the other for the Western self is presented
in terms of ontological differences with each other: ‘their’ ontological world
signifies a possible world which is different from ‘our’ world, one that should
not be actualised by ‘us’, but should be realised as virtual:

To maintain the values of the other as implicit does not mean celebrat-
ing some numinous mystery that they enclose. It means refraining from
actualizing the possible expressions of alien thought and deciding to
14 Introduction
sustain them as possibilities … The anthropological experience depends
on the formal interiorization of the “artificial and special conditions”
to which Deleuze refers. The moment at which the world of the other
does not exist outside its expression is transformed into an “eternal”
­condition—that is, a condition internal to the anthropological relation,
which realizes this possibility as virtual.
(Viveiros de Castro 2011a, p. 137, emphasis in original;
see also Viveiros de Castro 2014b, p. 196)

The meaning here may be clearer if we consider Deleuzian distinctions be-

tween reality, possibility, actuality, and virtuality:

The only danger in all this is that the virtual could be confused with
the possible. The possible is opposed to the real; the process undergone
by the possible is therefore a ‘realisation’. By contrast, the virtual is not
opposed to the real; it possesses a full reality by itself. The process it
undergoes is that of actualisation.
(Deleuze 1994, p. 211)

According to Kimura (1997), in the philosophy of Bergson and Deleuze,

object, or the objective, denotes that which has no virtuality, and thus it is
considered either as possible or as real. On the other hand, the subjective is
virtual, that is, in the process of being actualised; at the same time, it pos-
sesses a reality of its own (Kimura 1997, pp. 95–96; see also Deleuze 1991,
pp. 41–43, 96–97).18
With these things in mind, Viveiros de Castro’s statement could be para-
phrased: the world of the other signifies a ‘possible world’, precisely because
it seems to have no existence beyond its expression. We should maintain it
as indeterminate and virtual, and at the same time, we should deal with it as
real, without trying to explicate or actualise it.
When such a claim is made with the ideals of the ‘ontological self-­
determination of the other’ (Viveiros de Castro 2014a) and the radical
essentialism of taking thing-concepts in the field as they are, there is an
unexpected effect: a phenomenon which has no existence outside of being
expressed by people—what is subjective, or virtual for us—is realised as
objective for them. This effect emerges when the notion of the Deleuzian
Other is projected upon the people in the field. For instance, Viveiros de
Castro writes,

The Other thus appears as a condition of the field of perception: the

existential possibility of those parts of the world that lie beyond actual
perception is guaranteed by the virtual presence of an Other that per-
ceives them: what is invisible to me subsists as real by being visible to an
other.
(Viveiros de Castro 2013, p. 478, emphasis added)
 Introduction 15
It is noteworthy that, according to the terminology of Bergson/Deleuze on
which these assertions are based, the object/objective does not have virtual-
ity (Deleuze 1991, p. 41). Here, the realm of the virtual for the people under
study, which is suggested by the mention of such things as a jaguar’s per-
spective that cannot be perceived by ordinary humans or virtual person-
hood in animals (Viveiros de Castro 2014b, pp. 57–58; see also Holbraad
2007, 2012, pp. 163–172), is subsumed to the objective reality of the people.
Moreover, it is subsumed to the realm of the ontic being/existence as an in-
dex of the radical alterity of the ontological world of the other.19
The centrality of being/existence in the OT, however, must be reconsid-
ered when we turn to the contingency, inscrutability, and limitation of the
state of being. It leads us to rethink the relationship between humans and
the realm of the virtual that has yet to appear, or has already disappeared,
as something.
This does not mean that things such as spirits, witchcraft, and jaguar–­
humans simply exist in one ontological world, but remain virtual in another.
Rather, it points to the fundamental contingency, transience, inscrutability,
and uncontrollability of the state of being in a particular time and space,
not only for ‘us’, but also for the people in the field. In a sense, ontological
self-determination is a promise that can never be fulfilled for anyone.
If we take seriously the fundamental contingency, incomprehensibility,
and fragility of being, then to understand the magical-religious practices
of the people we study, it is necessary to find a new analytical dimension
that differs from the one that examines relations of various beings on the
presumption that they all exist. One such dimension is that which does not
exist in the same sphere as ontic being, and yet enables things to appear con-
tingently in a unique way and to interact with each other. To introduce new
dimensions that allow consideration of a ‘reality’ in which various beings
relate and interact with each other, it is necessary to create a new theoretical
frame.
To investigate the mutual interactions and transformations of entities and
forces beyond the sphere of ontic beings, in the next section I will examine
the ideas proposed by Viktor von Weizsäcker, who developed the concept of
umwelt, which enables us to explore the lives of humans and other organisms
in processes of mutual formation within milieus, and moreover, to consider
their formations and transformations in phase and timescale beyond the
ontic being/existence.

Exploring umwelt studies

As originally proposed by von Uexküll, umwelt is a means of examining the
uniqueness of the world lived by each creature, which is inseparable from its
way of being, including its perceptions, bodily form, and patterns of behav-
iour. This insight, that is, that each creature exists in a unique world totally
appropriate to its form of life, contrasted with the Darwinist presumption
16 Introduction
that each creature was, more or less, adapted to the world as a totality, in-
cluding all creatures (von Uexküll 1921). Putting the organism at the centre
enabled the conceptualisation of plural worlds (Welten) and the relativisa-
tion of the anthropocentrism of Darwinist accounts. Next, I will examine
the work of von Weizsäcker, especially the Gestaltkreis theory he elaborated,
to explain the relations between an organism and its umwelt.

Gestaltkreis theory
While von Weizsäcker incorporated von Uexküll’s basic conception of
umwelt, unlike von Uexküll, who tended to characterise the relation be-
tween an organism and its umwelt as harmonious and self-sufficient, von
Weizsäcker focused on instability and crisis, that is, the dynamic relations
between an organism and its umwelt. Viewing the organism as a subject that
creates and recreates itself in relation to the umwelt, he paid particular at-
tention to interactions and coherence in encounters between organism and
umwelt.20 Below, based on his main work entitled ‘Der Gestaltkreis: Theorie
der Einheit von Wahrnehmen und Bewegen [The Gestaltkreis: Theory of the
unity of perception and movement]’ (1997[1950]), I will present a broad out-
line of his theory.21
Literally translated, the term Gestaltkreis means ‘circle of form’. Accord-
ing to von Weizsäcker, it refers to the emergence of a movement-form of an
organism through mutual, circulative interaction with its umwelt:

The emergence of the form [of an organism] must be a closed circle in-
sofar as there is no given order of first and next in its coming together …
Thus, we will call the emergence of the movement-forms of organisms
Gestaltkreis.
(von Weizsäcker 1997, p. 254, emphasis in original)

Thus, in Gestaltkreis, perception, body-form, patterns of movement, and

other things that constitute the mode of being of an organism are created
through encounters and interactions with the umwelt. Meanwhile, as an
organism encounters its umwelt, an order coherent to the mode of being
emerges between the organism and the umwelt. I shall refer to these general
concepts of von Weizsäcker (1997), such as the circulative interactions of an
organism and its umwelt and their coherent relations and co-existence, as
Gestaltkreis theory.

‘Subject’ and crisis

In Gestaltkreis theory, an organism’s life-form, or mode of being, is ­regarded
as undergoing incessant creation and recreation through encounters and inter-
actions with its umwelt (von Weizsäcker 1997, pp. 235–236, 304–305). While
an organism is predisposed to maintain a stable life-form, it can undergo
 Introduction 17
transformations in response to encounters with its surroundings. At the
same time, these encounters and interactions also transform the emerging
order between the organism and the umwelt. Gestaltkreis theory thus offers
insight into how a coherent relationship between an organism and its um-
welt is created performatively through their interactions and, at the same
time, how the life-form of an organism may be easily transformed through
accidental encounters and fluctuations in coherence.
In the course of its lifetime, an organism may experience tension between
ongoing stability and the need for self-transformation in relation to its um-
welt. Namely, when a coherent relationship between an organism and its
umwelt endures, it is experienced by the organism as the stable condition of
itself. The balance, however, is easily upset by new encounters and changes
to the organism and to its surroundings. In such a situation, the organism
strives to preserve the coherent relation with its umwelt by partly transform-
ing its mode of being.22
If we focus on an individual organism, this process could be interpreted as
a sublation (Aufheben) of its life-form. If we expand our view to encompass
the continuity of life beyond individual organisms, the entire process would
then be considered the continuation of life itself through life-form renewal by
each organism. von Weizsäcker considered life, which succeeds through the
repetition of organisms’ birth and death, as a recurring cycle. He referred to
this continuity as the circle of life (Lebenskreis) (von Weizsäcker 1997, p. 321).
von Weizsäcker developed his thought on this issue through two concepts:
subject and crisis. In this frame, rather than connoting psychological func-
tions or states, subject refers to the unity of an organism, which persists or
is endangered in relation to its umwelt (1997, pp. 300–301). For an organism
that has maintained a unique relation with its umwelt, a crisis is a critical
event in which identity and continuity are no longer viable. In a crisis, when
the coherent relation with the umwelt is broken, an organism is brought to a
critical juncture: either it transforms its life-form and survives or it does not
meet the challenge of vicissitude and disappears (von Weizsäcker 1997, p.
298). von Weizsäcker did not assume, however, that something like a united
subject existed autonomously and stably before the crisis. Rather, the life-
form of an organism as a subject is constituted and reconstituted through
incessant encounters with vicissitudes and crises.

We recognise the subject correctly when it is threatened with its dis-

appearance in a crisis … The subject is not a fixed possession; rather
one must be constantly procuring it in order to possess it. The unity of
the subject forms the counterpart to the unity of the object. Just as the
unity of various objects and events in our umwelt can be constituted
in perception and action only through a functional change, so too is
the unity of the subject constituted in the recovery repeated incessantly
throughout the discontinuities and crises.
(von Weizsäcker 1997, pp. 300–301)
18 Introduction
This insight sheds light on the contingency and discontinuity of the life-
form of an organism as a subject, which temporarily appears in its relation
to the umwelt. Here, the paired concepts of Pathisches and Ontisches also
come into play.

Pathisches and Ontisches

For von Weizsäcker, the crisis that an organism undergoes in relation to its
umwelt shows Pathisches of life. Pathisches, which can be glossed as pathos,
is discussed in more detail below.
While each organism behaves actively in relation to its umwelt, it is also
passive in the sense that whether it receives life or suffers the burden of
life, it just happens to exist (1997, pp. 312–313). In particular, fluctuations in
and ruptures of coherence with the umwelt caused by out-of-the-ordinary
changes force an organism, at the risk of its life, to transform its life-form.
von Weizsäcker characterised this state as Pathisches, which contrasts with
and sublates the state of Ontisches, or the ontic (1997, p. 314). Here, Pathis-
ches refers to the visceral drives that enable an organism to relate to its um-
welt. It also denotes the passive state of being of an organism that not only
lives its life actively, but also is lived by impersonal life itself in its body (see
Kimura 2010, pp. 555–556).
According to von Weizsäcker, the fundamental basis of organisms’ exist-
ence can never be grasped through biological experience. Kimura explained
this basic relationship (Grundverhältnis) (von Weizsäcker 1997, p. 336) as the
relationship between each organism and life itself. Namely, an organism is
individualised as a limited being by its body, while its life dissolves into the
fathomless depth of life itself (Kimura 2005, pp. 8–9).
Ontisches is thus a state of being as an organism comes to be individual-
ised, an unstable and transitory form of life based on its unique relationship
with its umwelt. Meanwhile, Pathisches denotes the passive and visceral re-
lations of Ontisches, or a life-form which fleetingly appears, with life itself
forming the basis for the emergence, transformation, and disappearance of
an organism (see von Weizsäcker 1997, p. 337).
In Anonyma, von Weizsäcker (1946, pp. 10–12) posits Pathisches as a ba-
sic attribute of organisms: animate beings are pathisch (the adjectival form
of Pathisches) and inanimate beings are ontisch (the adjectival form of On-
tisches). In this schema, ontisch merely denotes pure being or bare existence
(das nackte Sein), or in other words, that someone or something just is (see
Nausner 2008, p. 196). Meanwhile, pathisch connotes existence that is re-
ceived (erlitten) rather than assumed. For von Weizsäcker, Pathisches also
has personal or subject-bound attributes.
Although von Weizsäcker conceived of only organisms as pathisch, this
concept can be developed in new directions when we consider animism, a
frame that allows for the life of inanimate beings and for the personhood of
nonhuman beings. Things that are invested with life or personhood, even
 Introduction 19
while they remain inanimate or nonhuman beings, can be characterised as
pathisch rather than ontisch in that their existence is received rather than as-
sumed. In other words, these beings are thought to appear and to stay (iru, in
Japanese) transiently in particular time and space, rather than just to exist
(aru)23 in the ontic state of things.
While thinking through the OT seems to bring everything observed in
the field into the sphere of ontic being/existence, von Weizsäcker’s concepts
enable a better-defined characterisation of being; as a pathisch form of life,
being can emerge transiently like a light flickering momentarily from the sea
of life itself.

The temporality of being and its potential for transformation

Although each organism is contingent and transformable, each is none-
theless influenced and limited by the orders that have formed naturally
in relation to its umwelt. The life-form of any organism is thus formed
through temporality, which includes the accumulation of the organism’s
encounters and interactions with its umwelt. At the same time, the pa-
thisch attribute of an organism leads to the potential for its form of being,
which arose in a particular emergent order, to be dynamically sublated
into something else.
In effect, any encounter of an organism with its umwelt may lead to
transformation, and yet, the encounter is oriented by the life-form as it has
already been lived by the organism. While an organism’s perceptions and
movements enable the emergence of an umwelt coherent with itself, its life-
form has been prescribed by the order in which life beyond the individual
organism has continued. Regarding the temporality of the life-form of an
organism, von Weizsäcker wrote,

We should establish the process of the movements [of an organism] …

as a proleptic one. How this happens will be fundamentally defined
through its relationship to time. Namely, what happens now must be
described as what is coming from a past that has already happened and
thus cannot be changed, and is also going into a future that has not yet
happened … and thus has not yet been determined.
(von Weizsäcker 1997, p. 264, emphasis in original)

This describes the fundamental thrownness (Geworfenheit) of an organism

as a united subject that was originally thrown into the continuity of life and
therefore oriented by the order of the umwelt, which was coherent with its
life-form.24 At the same time, it allows that each subject, living within its co-
herent order of life and umwelt, can transform and renew both its life-form
and the umwelt through new encounters and interactions.
Even though the basic model for this theory was derived from the rela-
tions between the organism and its umwelt, Gestaltkreis theory can also
20 Introduction
help elucidate how a person encounters others (see von Weizsäcker 1997,
p. 273). Here, issues arising in the encounters and interactions between an
organism and its umwelt can be reformulated both as issues arising in the
encounters and relations of individual persons with other persons and as
relations between historical social orders and the life-forms of people.
Although von Weizsäcker only suggested the possibility of investigating
the social dimensions of Gestaltkreis (1997, pp. 316–317),25 I find the appli-
cation of his concepts in this way useful because they provide important
ideas for grounding the inquiry of how a person encounters others. In the
next section, by examining encounters and interactions between people and
deities in South Kanara, I will attempt to suggest the usefulness of Gestalt-
kreis theory for anthropology.

Inquiring into how a person encounters other beings

As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, this is an investigation into
the relationships among humans, deities, and the realm of the wild, which
are embodied both in būta worship and in the mundane social relations and
practices of the people in rural South Kanara. Focusing on concrete events,
I will examine these entangled relations, their historicity, and their trans-
formations, starting with the fundamental question of how a person creates
and recreates a world and his/her life-form through encounters and interac-
tions with others, including nonhuman beings.
Ideas and concepts presented in Gestaltkreis theory—the mutual forma-
tion and transformations of an organism and its umwelt, Pathisches con-
trasted with Ontisches, and the unknowable life itself forming the basis an
organism’s life—are useful tools for considering this question. Referring to
these ideas, I will illustrate the relationships among people, deities, and the
realm of the wild in South Kanara.
For people living in rural South Kanara, the dense forests and hills that
provide ample headsprings and are filled with the signs and sounds of vari-
ous creatures are both the source of life and the realm of the unknown. The
śakti (divine power) of deities exemplifies this multifarious quality, as over-
flowing from the depths of the forest and flowing into the realm of humans,
this śakti is thought to bring fertility into agricultural fields and thus enable
people to sustain their life, while simultaneously endangering them either
through its excess or through its exhaustion.
The relationship between people and the realm of the wild corresponds
to the relationship of an organism with its umwelt, and to the pathisch re-
lationship of a subject with life itself. In a sense, in their relationship to the
realm of the wild through būta worship, people are passive and contingent
beings who entrust their forms of life to their relations with the wild and
deities. At the same time, through intimate relations with land and nature in
their daily life, and by interacting with deities in rituals, they form affective
relationships with the realm of the wild and act towards it.
 Introduction 21
The realm of jōga and māya
In Tuḷu, the native language in South Kanara, the realm of ‘reality’ in-
habited by humans and other beings is called jōga, while the realm of the
unknown filled with śakti is called māya.26 If we consider these two realms
in reference to the pathisch relationship of people with the realm of the
wild, they can be seen as follows: the realm of jōga is regarded as the phase
of the tangible or actual, where humans and nonhuman beings appear,
encounter each other, and interact; whereas the realm of māya filled with
śakti is regarded as the phase of the virtual, where the individuality of
each being merges into impersonal life itself in the depths of the wild. Be-
yond human control or consciousness, śakti as wild divinity in the realm
of māya flows into the realm of jōga, manifesting itself, for example, in
spirit possession and through oracles. The time and space in which śakti
appears before people can be considered as a fluid threshold between the
tangible and intangible, or the actual and virtual.27 Through temporary
appearances of śakti in the form of būtas, people are able to interact with
the realm of māya.

The umwelt for the people: exploring the fringe

As I hope to show in this book, social relations in rural South Kanara have
been formed and oriented based on the pathisch relationship of the people
with the realm of the wild, which is embodied in encounters and interac-
tions with būtas. This is evident in the way that most of the customary laws
and the social organisation in the village society—including ranks, ritual
duties, land holding by manors, the matrilineal succession of the houses,
and the rituals themselves—are based on the worship of būtas that embody
the sacred wildness. At the same time, the laws and social organisation have
evolved to support the pathisch relationship of the people with the realm of
the wild.
The transaction of offerings and blessings between people and deities
shapes customary laws and social relations. Linking the village, paddy
fields, būta shrines, and forests and hills, gift-exchange between deities and
people who belong to various castes and houses embodies the circulation of
śakti from the realm of the wild to that of humans, and vice versa.
For these people, who live in villages surrounded by vast agricultural
fields ensconced in deep forest, their experiential umwelt is a realm of vari-
ous beings whom they encounter and interact with in their daily lives. They
create and recreate their forms of life through encounters and interactions
with various others. These others are both human and nonhuman, extending
from creatures in the forest to būtas, who temporarily manifest themselves
in rituals. At the same time, similar to an organism that embeds itself into
the pathisch relation with life itself, one’s life has its roots in the depths of the
realm of the wild, a phase different from that of the ontic being/existence.
22 Introduction
Consequently, the umwelt that most people directly perceive as their milieu
can be imagined as having a fluid, vague border, gradually extending from
the realm of jōga, with its various tangible beings, to the dim and unknown
realm of māya filled with śakti.
However, even in the realm of jōga, or the experiential umwelt, villagers
are not fully free of uncertainty, because they cannot foresee when and what
sort of changes and crises will happen to them, and hence cannot completely
control their lives. In terms of the Gestaltkreis theory, this contingency and
uncontrollability reveals the pathisch attribute of their lives.
At the same time, as will be described later in this book, when encounter-
ing events and vicissitudes in the realm of jōga, people often become aware
of the possibilities that these vicissitudes emerge from their relationship
with the realm of māya. Therefore, people try to undertake and deal with the
power of māya by ritually appeasing the wild śakti, consulting astrologers,
and interacting directly with būtas in rituals. Through these performances,
people sense that the dim edge of the realm of jōga is not the end of the
world, but is connected to the realm of the unknown; and at the same time,
they endeavour to look into the depths beyond the fringe.
Sensitivity to the realm of māya, fear of and care for the wild divinity
that forms and orients their lives, and actions towards śakti that appear
at the border of tangible and intangible—all entangled with daily social
relations—are part of the formative relationships between people and the
umwelt.
As will be described, jostled by things such as the introduction of modern
legal systems, land reforms, and massive development projects, village com-
munities in South Kanara have been undergoing changes. In the process of
historically recent change, which is usually glossed as ‘modernisation’, the
villagers encounter and interact with various new actors who have appeared
in their daily lives. This process has also led to changes both in the custom-
ary ways of doing things and in the daily social relations among villagers,
creating new systems and organisations which embody unfamiliar logics
and values.
In the long historical process, these jostling events are regarded as the
crises that transform relations among various beings in the realm of jōga,
and that transform the umwelt and the lives of villagers. The villagers have
created and recreated their forms of life within historical circumstances.
Using what they know, they have reconstructed and adapted familiar forms
of life while encountering and interacting with other forms of life based
on new logics, systems, and ways of doing things. All the while, however,
their relationship with the realm of māya, even though it has also noticeably
changed, has remained significant in their daily lives. In the ethnography
that follows, focusing on the practices of people who in the wake of crises
have maintained, temporarily lost, or newly created relationships with the
wild and with deities, I investigate the mutual formation and transformation
of people’s lives and their umwelt.
 Introduction 23
The organisation of this book
This book comprises two parts. Before summarising each chapter, I will
provide an overview of these two parts.

Part One: the relationships between būtas and villagers

In the first half of Part One (Chapters 2–5), I describe the daily life of
­villagers, their customary laws and social organisation, and the features of
būta worship in Perar. Būta worship in South Kanara has developed as a
sophisticated system closely linked to hierarchy, matriliny, land tenure, and
the distribution of farm products in village society. It is based on oral myth-
ological epics (pāḍdana) and customary law (kaṭṭụ). At the same time, the
core of būta worship, which creates its actuality, is composed of the direct
encounters and interactions between people and deities.
Following this consideration of the villagers’ umwelt, focusing on the vil-
lagers’ relationship with deities through spirit possession, the second half
of Part One (Chapters 6 and 7) refers to several anthropological studies of
human–nonhuman relations to examine the relationship between būtas and
people in this village society. My primary focus is the transaction of of-
ferings and blessings between humans and deities. Gift-exchange between
­humans and deities, which forms the basis of the relations between the peo-
ple and their umwelt, also points to the intersection of the Gestaltkreis the-
ory and anthropology.
As described earlier, one of the important themes of the Gestaltkreis
theory is how encounters and interactions occur between an organism and
its umwelt, and likewise in social contexts, how a person encounters oth-
ers. These encounters have been a central concern of anthropology too,
­although in anthropology, the ‘others’ in these encounters and interactions
are not necessarily human. Indeed, ethnography abounds with informants
who mention nonhuman beings such as rivers and mountains, plants and
animals, and deities and spirits as the ‘others’ with whom these informants
have significant interactions.
The relationship between human and nonhuman beings has been inves-
tigated in anthropological studies on magical-religious practices such as
animism, shamanism, and spirit possession. Studies of gift-exchange and
personhood have also elaborated important arguments about the unfolding
of encounters and interactions between people and others, including non-
human beings.28 Moreover, as seen in the OT, anthropological studies of
unique relations between humans and nature, and of gift-exchange and per-
sonhood, have been invigorated through connections to studies on h ­ uman–
nonhuman relations in related fields.29
This book begins its theoretical investigation with reference to the works
of Marriott (1976) and Appadurai and Breckenridge (1976), who examined
the characteristics of transactions in South Asian societies and proposed
24 Introduction
a number of influential concepts such as substance-code, dividual person,
and transactional network. Applying these concepts to the analysis of būta
worship in South Kanara, I discuss their limited usefulness. Casting a wider
net, I also closely examine several studies beyond South Asian societies for
clues to investigating human–nonhuman relations in order to consider the
formation and transformation of one’s self through interactions with būtas.
My discussion includes the work of Strathern (1996), who examined the for-
mation and limitation of networks created by the transaction and circula-
tion of substances, as well as the work of Viveiros de Castro (1998, 2004b)
and Willerslev (2004, 2007), who investigated the exchange of perspectives
between humans and nonhuman others.

Part Two: people and deities undergoing social change

In Part Two, the focus shifts to the relationships among people, land and
nature, and deities, through an examination of the multiple practices of peo-
ple who have been dealing with events that have brought about enormous
change in village societies. Through close investigations of various villager
practices, and of conflicts and turmoil leading to crises that engender the
reorganisation, transformation, and dismantling of daily social relations,
I seek to explain continuities and transformations in the relationships be-
tween villagers and their umwelt.
As alluded to above, būta worship in South Kanara is a sophisticated
system linked to family ranks and associated duties, matriliny called aḷi-
yasantāna kaṭṭụ,30 and land tenure. Since the nineteenth century, it has been
influenced by the state administration of religious institutions and, espe-
cially affecting land holding and matriliny, by the transition to modern law.
Regional management of religious institutions in South India, for example,
following the Madras Hindu Religious Endowments Act of 1927, critically
brought new actors—administrators of the laws of the state—into the prov-
ince of būta worship, where the deities themselves had heretofore been re-
garded as the supreme actors.
Land reform after independence, with its redefinition of matriliny in
modern law and its surveys and registration of land held by matrilineal joint
families, also transformed būta worship, which was rooted in land holding
and matriliny. More recently and dramatically, since the mid-2000s, ow-
ing to the construction of petrochemical plants in a designated special eco-
nomic zone, village communities in Mangaluru taluk have been faced with
relocation and destruction.
Most previous studies have looked at events such as the enforcement of
modern law, modification of indigenous systems of land tenure and inher-
itance, and exploitation of land as major elements in the process of social
change caused by modernisation. Studies of institutional changes in Hindu
temples have specifically described the collapse of transactional networks
among kings, priests, and deities with the advent of colonial power, which
 Introduction 25
brought the ruination of traditional kingship and involved temples in state
administration (Appadurai 1981; Fuller 1984; Dirks 1987). Other studies
examining the influence of various systems of land tenure introduced in
colonial India have described how these wrought fundamental changes to
traditional social systems based on a ‘system of entitlements’31 (e.g. Tanabe
2006). Regarding the būta rituals in South Kanara, some writers have ob-
served how following the land reforms in the 1970s, a decline in the power
of local landlords who had traditionally played a central role in organising
būta rituals led to a qualitative transformation in how būta worship is per-
formed (Rajan 1986, p. 54; Gowda 1991, p. 18).
Crises also ensue with the closer integration of local societies with national
and global markets: most studies of development projects have described lo-
cal communities being damaged by top-down development projects and en-
vironmental destruction. Within this literature a number of studies have, in
the context of grassroots democracy, analysed popular movements against
exploitation.32
As will be described, people in South Kanara who engage in būta rituals
have experienced historical and institutional changes similar to those described
in previous studies. As mentioned, the state administration of religious insti-
tutions in the colonial period brought new actors into the province of būta
rituals, which had been based on oral epics and direct interaction with būtas.
The appearance of new actors armed with the authority of modern law sparked
numerous disputes over the management of būta shrines. When matriliny and
land tenure were redefined and codified by modern law, and when the land re-
forms that followed independence were enacted, systems of land tenure and
matriliny which had supported būta rituals were reorganised. Now, as large-
scale development has given rise to antidevelopment activism, the current crisis
for būta rituals in village societies may mark another major turning point.
With these historical, institutional, and socio-economic changes, the rela-
tions that villagers form with various others have also been reorganised and
partially transformed. As I argue, however, the transformation and dyna-
mism within village society and būta worship cannot be interpreted as simply
a unilateral process, as the dissolution of a traditional society or the decline
of ‘the religious world’ through modernisation. Neither can we assume that
the systems, notions, and modes of being, which embody modern values and
logic, simply subsume or cancel out their traditional counterparts based on
spiritual beings and transform them into a modern political ‘reality’ within
its ensuing narrow ontological limits (cf. de la Cadena 2015, pp. 273–283).
My ethnography explores both the conflicts and frictions between cus-
tomary and modern systems and ways of life and the interactions and reflex-
ive relations between them. I also investigate the process of the formation
and transformation of transactional networks between people and deities
in crises that ensue when systems and modes of being embodying different
logics, values, and histories encounter each other and thereby precipitate
conflicts and negotiations.
26 Introduction
The chapters of this book
Chapters 2 through 5 closely examine the relations among people, land and
nature, and deities in their milieu to begin to elucidate the umwelt of the
villagers living in rural South Kanara.
Covering aspects such as social composition, production, regular voca-
tions, and villager relations with land and nature, Chapter 2 outlines daily
life in the villages in Perar. Chapter 3 focuses on the village būta shrine, the
largest religious institution in Perar. Describing the religious duties of the 16
manor houses, and of the priests and dancer/spirit mediums at the shrine,
I will clarify the relevant details of the customary laws and systems that form
the basis for būta worship in the village. Chapter 4 then provides pertinent
information about the pāḍdana, or oral epics, which describe the origins
of the deities and are drawn upon to ascribe the ranks and ritual duties of
Perar families. In Chapter 5, details of the yearly ritual at the village shrine
will be clarified through a discussion of the interaction between people and
būtas in the rituals. It will become apparent that while the mutual rights and
duties of the villagers and deities are updated through the transactions of
offerings and blessings, the ranks and rights of the people can be somewhat
destabilised by the būtas, who are the supreme actors.
Chapters 6 and 7 include theoretical explorations of the relationship be-
tween villagers and deities. Chapter 6 deals with an agricultural ritual called
kambuḷa and the annual nēma ritual in Perar. Applied in the analysis of
these rituals are the notions of substance-code, dividual persons, and trans-
actional networks proposed by Marriot (1976) and Appadurai and Breck-
enridge (1976). Referring to Strathern (1996), the formation of transactional
networks between people and deities, the circulation of substance-codes,
and the limitations of the network will also be described. After this, by fo-
cusing on the experiences of spirit mediums who transform themselves into
deities during rituals, Chapter 7 investigates the direct interactions between
people and būtas. Drawing on Gestaltkreis theory and notions of perspec-
tivism (Viveiros de Castro 1998, 2004b; Willerslev 2004, 2007), I will con-
sider these interactions as playing with multiple perspectives.
Chapter 8 provides a bridge from Part One, which explains the charac-
teristics of būta worship and its role in people’s lives in a village society, to
Part Two, which examines the dynamism both of village society and of būta
rituals in the face of social change. This examination requires an investiga-
tion of 1930s legal disputes over the trusteeship of the būta shrine in Perar.
I will then examine a series of disputes that occurred in the 2000s between
an influential family in Perar and a newly established management com-
mittee for the village shrine. Through this investigation, I will explore how
people have attempted to reorganise social relations around būta rituals,
betwixt and between legal rulings from law courts and divine orders from
deities. Chapter 9, as a preparatory step for a close analysis of the relations
among people, land and nature, and būta worship in subsequent chapters,
 Introduction 27
will discuss historical changes in land tenure in South Kanara. Following an
overview of land tenure system in pre-colonial South Kanara, I will clarify
the characteristics of the ryotwari (raīyatwārī) system enforced under the
Raj in South Kanara and analyse the assessment of land and registration of
landholders in Perar based on an official document published in the early
twentieth century. Lastly, I will provide a brief overview of the influence of
land reforms in post-independence South Kanara.
Matriliny, especially how it has been defined under modern law and how
villagers have adapted to its changes, comes under scrutiny in Chapters 10.
As already mentioned, būta worship is closely related to the matrilineal sys-
tem called ‘aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ’. The Baṇṭa landlords in the area are the main
organisers of the būta rituals at village shrines, as each generation inherits
ritual duties and worships family būtas within the kuṭuma. While kuṭuma
(kuṭumba, in Kannaḍa) can be glossed as ‘matrilineal joint family’, it is more
than this; it is a complex entity encompassing a core, head family that has
a family būta shrine and several other households, land, and members who
are taken to be matrilineal descendants of common female ancestors. That
is to say, kuṭuma is both a historical notion that reaches back to the origin
and lineage of a matrilineal joint family and a spatial notion which includes
houses and land bound by būta rituals (cf. Moore 1985).
As Chapter 10 will show, in South Kanara since the nineteenth-century
legal redefinition of aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, kuṭuma has been reinterpreted in
modern law as an indivisible ‘community of property’. After independ-
ence, rules of inheritance for family property and the rights of individual
successors were regulated by new laws. Baṇṭa landlords, who traditionally
held most of the land, have been greatly affected by this legislation. Focus-
ing on the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, an influential family in Perar, I will describe
how ­village-dwelling Baṇṭa landlords dealt with the changes brought by
the Madras Aliyasantana Act of 1949 and other laws enacted since then.
The 1949 Act required members of a kuṭuma, who had maintained a loose
unity based on the practice of būta rituals and their common ownership of
land, to stipulate the land rights of each member. I will describe the careful
thought given to the ways a Baṇṭa family strove to maintain the kuṭuma as
the comprehensive and integral basis of their life and, at the same time, to
reorganise it to conform with modern law.
In Chapter 11, I will investigate the effects of the 1970s land reforms, fo-
cusing on the responses and experiences of villagers in Perar and on how the
changes have affected būta worship. It is necessary to consider the relation-
ships between ordinary farmers and landlords, whose land rights have been
authorised through their position as the organisers of būta rituals pertain-
ing to particular lands. We also have to investigate how the būtas, regarded
as the fundamental ‘owners of land’, have influenced villager practices and
decision-making following the land reforms. Land reforms enforced by
the government were more than just an intervention into the conventional
land tenure system in village society; the new laws also affected how people
28 Introduction
related to their families, neighbours, lands, and deities, and they compelled
a reorganisation of existing systems and relations. The reorganisation of
their social relations linked with land makes clear the villagers’ efforts to
maintain and renew their relationship with particular lands and deities
while coping with the demands of modern law.
Chapters 12 and 13 will discuss the influence of the development projects
around Perar. Since the mid-1980s, a series of such projects have greatly
affected the lives of villagers through their large-scale land acquisition and
destruction of fields and villages. Here, we see how villagers have coped with
deforestation and the fragmentation of village communities. How do būta
rituals figure into villager responses, both positive and negative, to develop-
ment projects? How are the outsiders who implement development projects
related to the land, inhabitants, and deities in the area? Regarding these
questions, the following three topics will be discussed: būta worship in an-
tidevelopment activism, conflicts arising from the development projects and
the effects of the būtas’ agency, and the occurrence of būta worship inside an
industrial plant. In Chapter 12, I will consider the ambivalent influence of
the būtas, who both strongly support antidevelopment activism by ordering
a ‘desperate defence of land and shrine’ and, at the same time, bind people to
their land. Chapter 13 examines new manifestations of būta worship within
industrial plants in the special economic zone. It will be shown that inter-
actions between the deities and industry managers have come into being,
and that new transactional networks between workers and būtas have also
been created in industrial plants. These generally form when the industrial
zone experiences a calamity of some kind, an event that is interpreted as a
manifestation of the būta power that dwells in the land. Finally, Chapter 14
provides a conclusion to the entire book.

Fieldwork particulars
The fieldwork for this study was undertaken for a total of about 17 months
and was conducted during periods between May 2008 and March 2015. In
2007, when I made my first short visit to Mangaluru, I learned of the būta
deities. Visiting Mangalore University, I happened to meet a sociology stu-
dent. Hearing of my interest in indigenous religion and spirit possession, he
showed me a book published at the beginning of the twentieth century. I was
fascinated by a monochrome portrait on one of the pages. It was a photo-
graph of a būta ritual dancer, dressed in a costume made from palm leaves,
looking out from the page with a hard look.33
Although I was unable to observe any būta rituals during this first trip,
my interest was further piqued when I visited Mangaluru again in June
2008. For the first two months, try as I might, I could not settle on a suitable
place to study. It was the rainy season, which is not a popular time for būta
rituals. The situation changed for the better when I met Professor Chin-
nappa Gowda, a folklorist at Mangalore University. He introduced me to
 Introduction 29
Ms Akshaya Shetty, who had just completed a master’s course in folklore
studies under his guidance. She told me that she was from a village famous
for a unique and historic būta ritual, and that her father’s family was in
charge of it. Soon thereafter, she took me to her village, a place with wide
sweeps of green rice fields surrounded by deep forest filled with birdsong.
I then decided on Perar as the base for my fieldwork. During this field-
work period in 2008, I commuted an hour each way between the city centre
and the village every day. I was unsure about taking up residence in the
village because I was accompanied by my four-year-old daughter. In 2009,
surer about how to live in the village, I stayed in Perar with my daughter and
husband. We were privileged to be allowed to stay in a guest house owned
by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family, the matrilineal joint family on Akshaya’s
father’s side, which was located in the same compound as Akshaya’s house.
Since then, I have continued my fieldwork in Perar and neighbouring vil-
lages greatly aided by Akshaya, her mother Baarati, and her father Harisha.

Notes
1 South Kanara (Dakṣiṇa Kannaḍa) is a region located between the Western
Gāts and Arabian Sea, which extends across Udupi and Dakshina Kannada
districts in Karnataka state and Kasaragod district in Kerala state (see Bhat
1998, pp. 4–6). Though the official language of Karnataka state is Kannaḍa, the
­native language of most inhabitants in South Kanara is Tuḷu, and this region has
been called Tuḷunāḍụ. The month of māyi in the Tuḷu calendar corresponds to
­between 15 February and 15 March in the solar calendar.
2 Śakti generally denotes the divine power of deities. Specifically, it refers to the
power, potency, or activating energy incarnated in goddesses (Tanaka 1997,
p. 148; Fuller 2004, p. 44). Also, prakṛti in Tuḷu refers to nature, the natural
state of anything, the root, cause and origin (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 2161).
This word originates from the Sanskrit word prakṛiti, which refers to a goddess
as well as to nature, and hence it is synonymous with śakti (Monier-Williams
2008[1899], p. 654). Both śakti and prakṛiti indicate the inseparability of nature
and divinity and the ambiguous power of goddesses.
3 Mangaluru has been called Maṅgaḷūru in Tuḷu and Mangalore in English. On
1 November 2014, the state government of Karnataka changed the rendering of
the official name of the taluk from Mangalore to Mangaluru. Though I gener-
ally use ‘Mangaluru’ in this book, I also use ‘Mangalore’ when quoting previous
studies and official records or to conform with the name of an institute. In this
book, I have changed the names of some places, informants, and families, and
have used abbreviated designations for companies such as ‘SK’ and ‘CS’ to pro-
tect their identities.
4 In this book, ‘Perar’ denotes Mudu Perar and Padu Perar as a whole. As be-
comes apparent in Part One, in many ways, these two villages are regarded as a
complementary pair.
5 The notion of ‘the realm of the wild’ here overlaps with prakṛti which denotes the
power of goddesses. As described later, it is an unknowable realm filled with the
śakti of deities.
6 The Sanskrit word prasāda indicates serenity, benevolence, and grace; offer-
ings from the deity’s altar is also called prasāda (Monier-Williams 2008[1899],
pp. 696–697). In Tuḷu, prasāda indicates blessings from deities; generally,
30 Introduction
offerings such as flowers, food, and sandalwood paste which are presented to
deities and then given to devotees are called prasāda (Upadhyaya 1988–1997,
p. 2170).
7 For important studies on the relation between modernity and the occult, see
also Comaroff and Comaroff (1992, 1993, 2001, 2002), Behrend and Luig (1999),
Moore and Sanders (2001), Masquelier (2002), and Pels (2003). Boddy (1994) also
reviewed anthropological studies on spirit possession, focusing on the dimen-
sion of ‘resistance’ against oppressive social changes such as modernisation and
colonisation. See also Ishii (2007), as a critique of the theoretical framework of
these previous studies.
8 See also Geschiere (1999) and Meyer (1999). Needless to say, even before the
1990s, there were some studies which considered the occult in non-Western
­societies as the expression of people’s ambivalent consciousness towards moder-
nity. See, for instance, Fabian (1978).
9 For critiques of this tendency, see Englund and Leach (2000), Ishii (2005), and
Ranger (2007).
10 For various theoretical trends in anthropology concerning ontology, see Vigh
and Sausdal (2014), Gad, Jensen, and Winthereik (2015), Kohn (2015), and
Jensen et al. (2017).
11 Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell (2007) cite Bruno Latour, Alfred Gell, Marilyn
Strathern, Viveiros de Castro, and Roy Wagner as anthropologists who have
indirectly led the ontological turn. In this book, I concentrate on Viveiros de
Castro, who often refers to and leads arguments on the ontological turn, as a
primary proponent of the OT.
12 Naturally, proponents of the OT criticise any consideration of these magical-­
religious practices and discourses as mere ‘beliefs’ (see Viveiros de Castro 2011a,
p. 136).
13 The rationality debate involves a series of arguments concerning the criteria for
rationality as well as the differences and compatibility between systems of mod-
ern thought and ‘primitive thought’. See Wilson (1974), Tambiah (1990), Horton
(1993), and Stambach (2000).
14 Viveiros de Castro has offered a refutation of this critique (2011a, pp. 135–137).
15 In contrast to studies that assume the modernity of colonial and postcolonial
states, Pedersen (2011, p. 67) sees the post-socialist Mongolian state as magical,
shamanistic, and non-modern.
16 See, for instance, Asad (1986), who, in discussing the translation of culture, criti-
cised the objectivist view of Gellner (1970). While appreciating the view of Asad,
Viveiros de Castro proposes the idea of ‘controlled equivocation’ as a better un-
derstanding of translation (Viveiros de Castro 2004a, p. 5).
17 As an exception, Henare (2007), one of the editors of Thinking through Things
(Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007), uses the idea of ‘commensurability’ when
considering the life of Maori people, who shift between modern and traditional
registers of value and property.
18 Deleuze writes,
Bergson means that the objective is that which has no virtuality—whether re-
alized or not, whether possible or real, everything is actual in the objective …
Matter has neither virtuality nor hidden power, and that is why we can as-
similate it to “the image”.
(1991, p. 41, emphasis in original)
19 Regarding this, Holbraad writes, ‘My central argument turns on the idea that
alterity proper must be construed in ontological rather than epistemological
terms. The questions that alterity poses to us anthropologists pertain to what
 Introduction 31
exists rather than what can be known’ (2009, p. 81, emphasis added). Also,
­Holbraad (2007, pp. 208–217) considers Cuban divination in which deities move
from transcendent to immanent to communicate with humans, using the notion
of potentiality. This view is similar to my discussion in later chapters of būtas,
which appear at times between the virtual and the actual. Holbraad, however,
focuses on how a diviner makes the transcendent deities manifest as immanent
beings. Likewise, critiques (e.g. Viveiros de Castro 2014a) of the view of those
anthropologists who approach witchcraft, spirits, and other magical-religious
phenomena as if they do ‘not really exist’ are, in effect, making an ethical request
that anthropologists treat these as phenomena that have real being/existence for
the people in the field.
20 ‘Coherence’ (Kohärenz) is one of the key concepts in von Weizsäcker’s thought
(1997[1950]). The term indicates the chiasmic relation between an actor and its
umwelt, as well as its transformations; the characteristics of the umwelt are spec-
ified and transformed by a certain mode of action, and at the same time, the
mode of the act is specified by the characteristics of the umwelt that emerges in
the action (see Kawamoto 2006, pp. 82–83; Ishii 2012).
21 All following English quotations in this chapter from German sources are my
own translation.
22 Or, as discussed in Chapter 7, an organism may maintain its stability by dis-
regarding or ‘overlooking’ some of the changes of the umwelt (von Weizsäcker
1997, pp. 108–109).
23 Kimura discusses the distinction between the verbs aru (exist) and iru (stay) in
Japanese. According to Kimura, aru corresponds to ‘be’, sein, and être, which
are verbs as well as copulas, and it primarily denotes the existence of things
and abstractions not including animate beings. Meanwhile, iru is a verb which
denotes the ‘staying’ or ‘dwelling’ of humans, animals, and other personified
beings. In this sense, aru-mono (existing thing/being) is considered to be either
real or possible, while iru-mono (dwelling thing/being) is considered to be either
actual or virtual (Kimura 2000, pp. 70–73). From this perspective, a būta which
appears temporarily between the realms of the wild and the human is considered
not as an aru-mono, but as an iru-mono.
24 Therefore, the process of the development of an organism seems to anticipate
the order of its umwelt. This corresponds to the view of Merleau-Ponty that the
actions of an organism are endowed with a ‘reference to the future’. See Hirose
(1997).
25 For the social dimension of the Gestaltkreis theory, see also von Weizsäcker (2005).
26 In general, jōga refers to the physical world, the human form, existence, and
­reality, while māya means ‘mystery’ and ‘disappearance’. Also, māyaka denotes
vanishing, fleeting, passing away, and disappearing. It is thought that while
­būtas belong to the invisible realm of māya, they temporarily manifest them-
selves ( jōga āpini) through spirit possession. Additionally, būtas have the power
to make others vanish (māya maḷpuni). See Upadhyaya (1988–1997, pp. 1339,
2566, 2567), Claus (1978, pp. 9–10), and Brückner (2009, pp. 44, 77, 133).
27 In this sense, būta śakti in the realm of māya is considered to be virtuality, while
what appears in between the realms of māya and jōga is actuality. Kimura (1997,
pp. 98–101) had this to say about the relation between actuality and virtuality:
virtuality is the state in which actuality has not yet been actualised. It denotes
the state in which virtuality has not yet unfolded its virtue. Actuality arises only
between itself and virtuality, or as its difference from virtuality. See also Ishii
(2012).
28 For anthropological studies on personhood, see Carrithers, Collins, and
Lukes (1985), Jackson and Karp (1990), and Lambek and Strathern (1998).
32 Introduction
On personhood in South Asian societies, see Dumont (1965, 1980), Daniel (1984),
Mines (1988, 1994), Busby (1997), Freeman (1999), and Sax (2002). For studies
on gift-exchange in South Asian societies, see Parry (1986, 1989, 1994), Raheja
(1988), Osella and Osella (1996), Laidlaw (2000), and Copeman (2005, 2009, 2011).
29 In addition to the works of the ontological anthropologists discussed in the
previous sections, see Bird-David (1999), Ingold (2000), Willerslev (2004, 2007),
Kohn (2007, 2013), and Candea (2010).
30 Aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, also known as aḷiyakaṭṭụ, indicates the matrilineal system of
inheritance. In Tuḷu, aḷiya indicates ‘nephew’ or ‘son-in-law’, and santāna indi-
cates ‘line’ or ‘family’. See Upadhyaya (1988–1997, pp. 212, 2865).
31 Regarding this, Tanabe writes,
In the pre-colonial “system of entitlements”, members in a local community
were granted various rights to shares of the local products and the royal and/
or community honours and privileges in lieu of performing different duties
and functions for the reproduction of the state and community.
(Tanabe 2006, p. 767)
32 See, for instance, Shiva (1988), Gadgil and Guha (1992), Arnold and Guha (eds.)
(1995), Swain (1997), and Guha (2000).
33 This was one of the pictures of būta dancers in Thurston (1975[1909c],
pp. 141–148), with the caption ‘Nalike devil-dancer’.
Part One

Humans and the wild śakti

of deities
2 The land of paddy fields,
forests, and deities

One must travel about 30 kilometres inland from Mangaluru, the capital
city of Mangaluru taluk, to reach the adjoining villages of Mudu Perar
and Padu Perar. On a rainy day in early July 2008, I made my first visit to
Mudu Perar guided by Akshaya. We took an express bus from the central
bus station in Mangaluru. The bus ascended and descended along wind-
ing roads through hilly forests, crossed the Gurupura River, passed several
villages and e­ xtensive paddy fields, and within an hour arrived at a small
town called Kaikamba. We transferred to a local bus at the town station,
navigating around crowds of people, auto-rickshaws, and small shops and
stalls. We squeezed onto a local bus packed with passengers that headed
slowly ­towards Bajpe. After ten minutes, we got off this bus at a place called
Ishvarakatte, which is the entrance to Mudu Perar. Since it is on the top
of a hill, from one side of the road, I could look out over the deep forest
­below. On the other side of the road, there was a narrow street that led to the
inner village. Several small shops, including a general store, grocery, tea-
house, tailor, and barber, lined both sides of this narrow street, and a yellow
­auto-rickshaw was parked on one side.
We called the driver over and got into the back seat of the rickshaw. It took
us down the street, which was soon lined by houses surrounded by hedges.
A steep downhill road brought us to end of this row of houses, where my
field of vision suddenly expanded. Stretched before us as far as the eye can
see were vast green paddy fields. There were a few houses under palm groves
over the fields, and in the distance, I could just make out the deep forests
and hills surrounding these lowlands. Startled snowy herons took off from
one paddy field as we careened down the hill at full speed. At the bottom
of the hill, we extracted ourselves from the rickshaw. We had reached the
geographical centre of Mudu Perar.
In this chapter, I will provide an outline of my main research field, Perar.
First, I will elucidate the relations between Mudu Perar and Padu Perar.
Second, I will provide a general overview of the social composition of both
villages. Finally, I will describe how the land is used and the relationships
that exist among land, nature, and būta worship in this area.
36 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Mudu Perar and Padu Perar
Mudu Perar and Padu Perar are adjacent to each other and each has roughly
the same area.1 These villages are connected by a main road and countless
footpaths used daily by the villagers. As already mentioned, these villages
once comprised a single village, and though they were administratively
separated in 1904, they are still collectively called ‘Perar’ by the villagers.
‘Mudu Perar’ and ‘Padu Perar’ literally mean ‘East Perar’ and ‘West Perar’,
and they are alternatively called the ‘lowland (tirtakarɛ)’ and ‘highland (mit-
takarɛ)’, respectively. These names show that the villages are still conceived
of by the villagers as an inseparable pair.2
According to the oral epic (pāḍdana), the origin of Perar can be traced
all the way back to a mythical period, and every part of the land is suffused
with the relationships between the people and the deities. For instance, the
territory of Perar spans from Aggidaimata to Dambepāpu, and it is said that
the area between these two places was the space covered by Balavāṇḍi, the
main deity of the village shrine, when he stood with his feet set apart. The
border of Perar was thus determined by Balavāṇḍi, and likewise, most places
there were also demarcated and named in relation to deities.
As we will closely examine in Chapter 4, it is said that about 800 years ago,
Balavāṇḍi disguised himself as a human being and appeared in Perra (the old
name of Perar). He visited several houses in the village and made the then
head of each house promise to construct a village būta shrine. Gangādara
Rai, who is the present head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu,3 the highest-ranked
local manor house in Perar, narrated this mythical event as follows:

The daiva [an honorific for a būta] first appeared at the house of a
­ rahman family called Pejattāya. Then, the daiva came to this house.
B
Firstly, three visitors wearing turbans came and asked for a drink of
water. A Jain woman called Koratāi Balardi, who was then the head of
the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, gave them milk to relieve their thirst. As soon as
they had finished drinking it, they vanished. That night, the daiva ap-
peared in her dream and told her, ‘We are the ones who asked for water
this morning. We are deities. We came here because we have a request
for you.’ She then asked them, ‘What help do you need?’ The daiva re-
plied, ‘We came here to protect this village and make it prosperous. You
must establish sixteen guttus in Perra, and the Muṅḍabeṭṭu must be the
first one. You must also found two villages, East Perra and West Perra,
with eight guttus each. These families must organize an annual festival
(nēma) for us. The Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu will be central, as this is the land
of my origin (mūla stāna). For the people of Perra, you must construct
a shrine at the centre of the village.’ For this reason, the village shrine
was constructed for the people. In this way, it has continued till today.
(Gangādara Rai, 2 July 2008)

As seen in this narrative, the division of Mudu Perar and Padu Perar, and
of the 16 manor houses or guttus presiding over the land, was said to be
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 37
determined by Balavāṇḍi. For the villagers worshipping būtas, the religious
centre of Perar is the shrine of the village deities (grāmada daiva) located
near the border of Mudu Perar and Padu Perar. The members of the guttu
families are responsible for guiding the other villagers to organise rituals at
the village būta shrine. As seen above, from the mythical time of the oral ep-
ics through today, Mudu Perar and Padu Perar have been inseparable from
each other regarding būta worship.

The social composition of Perar

According to a document at the village panchayat in Padu Perar, as of 2001,
the population of Mudu Perar is 4,951 (2,307 males and 2,644 females), and
that of Padu Perar is 3,520 (1,719 males and 1,801 females).4 Table 2.1 shows
the number of households based on religious affiliation in Mudu Perar and
Padu Perar, respectively.5 In Mudu Perar, the number of Hindu households
accounts for over the half of the total, and they are followed by Muslim and
then Christian households. In Padu Perar, the number of Hindu households
is over 70% of the total households, and they are followed by Christian and
then Muslim households. Though Hindu households are the majority in
both villages, it is notable that in Mudu Perar, Muslim households account
for over 30% of the total. Most of the Muslims reside in a community called
Guru Kambuḷa, located on the southern end of Mudu Perar. The Chris-
tians, all of whom are Catholics, do not reside in a particular place but are
scattered throughout the village.6
Table 2.2 shows the jāti, or caste group, structures in Mudu Perar and
Padu Perar. This table shows that the communities with the highest propor-
tion of the population in both villages are the Kuḍubi, Pūjāri, and Baṇṭa.
Among the communities represented in this table, except for the Brahman,
the Pambada and other Scheduled Castes, and the Koraga as the Scheduled
Tribe, all groups are designated as Other Backward Classes (OBC) in the
state of Karnataka.7 Below I will outline the communities important to būta
worship in Perar.

Table 2.1 T
 he number of households based on religion in Mudu
Perar and Padu Perar

Religion Number of %
households

Mudu Perar Hindu 689 53.2

Muslim 439 33.9
Christian 166 12.8
Total 1,294 100
Padu Perar Hindu 619 70.5
Muslim 94 10.7
Christian 165 18.8
Total 878 100
38 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Table 2.2 T
 he number of households based on caste group in Mudu Perar and
Padu Perar

Caste Number of households

Kuḍubi 260
Mudu Perar Pūjāri 167
Baṇṭa 128
Moyli 34
Ācāri 31
Other Scheduled Castes* 26
Konkani 11
Brahman 10
Puruṣa 6
Belcaḍe 6
Mūlya 5
Pambada 1
Others** 4
Total 689
Padu Perar Baṇṭa 148
Pūjāri 147
Kuḍubi 144
Brahman 32
Ācāri 23
Konkani 20
Moyli 18
Other Scheduled Castes* 18
Pambada 13
Puruṣa 11
Maḍḍyelɛ 11
Belcaḍe 9
Mūlya 8
Koraga 6
Others** 11
Total 619

* Households belonging to SC aside from Pambada.

** Caste groups which consist of less than three households (excluding SC).

Baṇṭa
In Tuḷu, Baṇṭa are also called Baṇṭerụ or Okkelakuḷu.8 In South Kanara, in-
fluential families of Baṇṭa have been the landlords of the local manors called
guttu. They have also played an important role in village society as patrons
of the būta rituals. Baṇṭa follow the matrilineal system called aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ, and they have matrilineal exogamous groups called bari. The kuṭuma,
or matrilineal joint family, usually maintains strong internal ties. Inher-
itance, succession, and primary life rituals are conducted essentially within
the kuṭuma. In each kuṭuma, the head house has a būta altar (maṅcāvu) in its
main hall (cāvaḍi), and it is of central importance. While most Baṇṭas living
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 39
in rural areas make their living in agriculture, it has also become prevalent
among Baṇṭas since the 1970s to migrate to mega-cities such as Mumbai or
Bangalore to engage in various businesses.

Kuḍubi
Kuḍubi are also called Kuḍubi-Gauḍa. They follow the patrilineal system
called makkaḷa kaṭṭụ, and their ancestors are said to have come from Goa. In
Mudu Perar, there is a Hindu shrine worshipped by Kuḍubis called Śāstāvu
Bramma. Also, they worship several būta shrines at the head house of the
main patrilineal family. One Kuḍubi family living in Śāstāvu is the 13th
ranked of the 16 guttus in Perar, and they have a duty to provide new clay
pots for the annual festival at the village būta shrine. Before the land reform
legislation was implemented in the 1970s, most Kuḍubis were not landed
farmers but tenants (gēṇi okkelụ) and domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ).9

Pūjāri
Pūjāri are also called Billava or Bayidya. Like Baṇṭa, Pūjāri follow a matri-
lineal system. In South Kanara, they have traditionally made their living as
toddy tappers, and they have played an important role in būta worship as
priests called pātri or māni. In Perar, Pātri priests are engaged in būta ritu-
als as mediums of a lower rank than the Baṇṭa priest called the mukkāldi.
Among the 16 guttus in Perar, Pūjāri families have the 14th through the
16th ranks. Before the land reform legislation was implemented in the 1970s,
most Pūjāris were involved in farming as tenants and domestic labourers, in
addition to their toddy tapping.10

Ācāri
Ācāri follow a patrilineal system and have traditionally made their living
as carpenters. In Perar, they are now both goldsmiths and silversmiths, and
they also use their vocational skills to make and repair sacred objects for
būta rituals. One duty of the head house of the Ācāri family in Mudu Perar
is to make a wooden gate for the yearly ritual at the village būta shrine. They
also offer four wooden spoons made from a piece of palm tree to the goddess
Māri. Most Ācāris in Perar have been engaged in farming as tenants.11

Moyli
Moyli are also called Sapalya, Sērigāre, and Dēvaḍige. They follow a mat-
rilineal system and have matrilineal exogamous groups. In Perar, the male
members of one particular Moyli family have played important roles in būta
worship as ritual servants (cākiridakulu) of the village būta shrine. They are
40 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
the carriers of sacred objects in the annual festival, and one Moyli man who
carries one būta’s mask (muga) is possessed by the deity in the ritual.

Baṭṭrụ/Brahman12
Brahman follow a patrilineal system and are said to have come to Perar from
Ahi-Kshētra13 to the west coast of South India around 750 CE. In Perar,
Brahman have ranked alongside Baṇṭa as the major landholders. While
Brahman priests conduct religious rites mainly in Hindu temples, they also
work for būta shrines. In one būta shrine called brammerɛ guṇḍa (Bramma’s
sanctuary, hereafter Bramma guṇḍa) located on the precincts of the village
būta shrine, a Brahman priest called an asrāṇṇa conducts daily services.
Also, a Brahman family called the Pejattāya occupies a higher position than
the 16 guttus, which consist of Baṇṭa, Pūjāri, and Kuḍubi.

Puruṣa
Puruṣa are also called Jōgi. In Perar, one particular Jōgi family has been
engaged in playing music and has played an important role in būta wor-
ship. They follow a patrilineal system and their occupation and training
as musicians is succeeded from father to son. They play traditional drums
and a wind instrument called a koṁbu. They have also recently taken up
Western instruments such as the saxophone and trumpet. In addition
to their occupation as musicians, they have been engaged in farming as
tenants.

Pambada
In South Kanara, Pambada have played significant roles as dancers as well
as spirit mediums in būta rituals. Though they follow a matrilineal system
and have matrilineal exogamous groups, their occupation and training as
dancers is generally passed down from father to son. Among the three com-
munities of būta dancers, i.e. Pambada, Parava, and Nalike, Pambada is
ranked highest. In Perar, they perform the dance of, and also are possessed
by, royal būtas called rājanụ daiva.14

Maḍḍyelɛ
Maḍḍyelɛ are also called Maḍivāḷa. They follow a matrilineal system and
have matrilineal exogamous groups. Traditionally, they have been engaged
in washing. In Perar, their duty for the būtas is to clean the sacred objects
kept in the treasure house (baṇḍārada koṭya). Also, in the annual festival,
they guard the sacred objects on the altar (koḍiyaḍi) of the village būta
shrine, and they assist with the performances of the Pambada dancers and
Baṇṭa priest by holding torches.15
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 41
Next, I will provide a sketch of the land use in Perar and then examine the
characteristics of būta worship, which is inseparably linked to the land and
forests in this area.

Land, forests, and deities

Perar consists of lowlands and highlands, and there are significant differ-
ences in the nature of the soil, humidity, and vegetation of each type of land.
The landscape of Perar varies greatly, from the lowlands, where one can see
ears of rice waving in paddy fields and palm groves providing shade, to ter-
raced paddy fields on hillsides, hilly deep forests, and dry highlands covered
with shrubs and rocks.
The lowlands suitable for cultivating wet rice paddy are divided into
bailụ, majalụ, and boṭṭu. Among them, bailụ is the lowest land. It is humid
throughout the year and suitable for triple cropping. Boṭṭu is higher than
bailụ and dry except for during the rainy season, and thus it is suitable for
single cropping. Majalụ is located between bailụ and boṭṭu, and is suita-
ble for double cropping. Additionally, on the highest and driest land called
kumerụ, several kinds of vegetables suitable for arid land are cultivated (see
Table 2.3). The cycle of triple cropping in bailụ is as follows: first, in the
month of beśa (from mid-May to mid-June),16 farmers plant rice seeds and
wait for their growth. After 22 days, the seedlings are transplanted into rice
paddies. After the rainy season, the first crop is harvested in the month of
nirnāla. The seeds of the second crop are planted in the month of bōṅtelụ, the
seedlings are transplanted into rice paddies in the month of jārụdɛ, and the
crop is harvested from the month of perārdε to puyiṅtelụ; while the seeds of
the third crop are planted in the month of puyiṅtelụ, the seedlings are trans-
planted into rice paddies in the month of māyi, and the crop is harvested
from the end of suggi to paggu (see Table 2.4). The crops planted in each sea-
son are called enelụ, suggi, and kolakɛ, respectively. Other food crops such
as coconut palms, jackfruits, and mangos are cultivated around the houses.
Since the 1980s, it has become prevalent among the villagers to cultivate
areca palm as a commercial crop, and parts of the rice paddies have been
converted to areca plantations.

Table 2.3 L
 and use in Perar

Land name Soil Crop Crop name

bailụ Most humid, lowland Triple-cropping paddy enelụ, suggi, kolakɛ

majalụ Humid Double-cropping paddy enelụ, suggi
boṭṭu Dry except during the Single-cropping paddy enelụ
rainy season
kumerụ Driest, highland Vegetables –
 42 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Table 2.4 The crop calendar and yearly rituals in Perar

Tuḷu calendar Farming Ritual in Hindu temples Ritual in būta shrines

(solar activity
calendar)

paggu Harvesting The ritual to take

(4/15–5/14) kolakɛ down a pole
(koḍimara) at the
village būta shrine
Start of the beśa Planting enelụ
rainy (5/15–6/14) seeds
season kārtelụ Replanting
(6/15–7/14) enelụ in rice
paddies
āti (7/15–8/14) During the month The ritual for Nāga
of āti, one should (nāgarapaṅcami)
not conduct any
auspicious rituals
sōṇa sōṇa saṅkrāṅti Making offerings
(8/15–9/14) The anniversary of to būta shrines
Krishna’s birth (cāvaḍi karipuni)
The anniversary of
Ganesha’s birth
Start of the nirnāla Harvesting Inauspicious day
winter (9/15–10/14) enelụ (mahālaya amāsɛ)*
season Rituals for nine
goddesses (navarātri)
bōṅtelụ Planting suggi Kaveri saṅkrāṅti Lighting sacred
(10/15–11/14) seeds Lighting sacred lights at lights at būta
temples shrines
jārụdɛ Replanting kambuḷa
(11/15–12/14) suggi in rice parva
paddies
perārdε (Harvesting
(12/15–1/14) suggi)
Start of the puyiṅtelụ Harvesting
dry (1/15–2/14) suggi
season Planting
kolakɛ seeds
māyi Replanting The anniversary of The annual festival
(2/15–3/14) kolakɛ in Ishvara’s birth (nēma) at the
rice paddies village būta shrine
suggi Harvesting Other būta rituals
(3/15–4/14) kolakɛ

* In general, mahālaya means the offerings and obsequies made to ancestors during the second fortnight
of the sixth lunar month. Also, mahālaya amāsɛ indicates the new moon day of the mahālaya fortnight
(Upadhyaya 1988–1997: 2549).

In addition to the paddy and other cultivated fields, the forests and hills
called gud ̣d ̣e are an important resource for the villagers’ lives. People often
go into the gudḍ ẹ to hunt game or gather useful plants. Since most gudḍ ẹ
land is under the control of local manor houses, a villager who hunts game
there shares part of his bag with the relevant manor house. The gudḍ ẹ is
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 43
believed to be the dwelling not only of wild animals but also of būtas and
other spirits. In Perar, several Nāga (a serpent deity) shrines are located in-
side the groves, and a shrine to Pilicāmuṇḍi (a tiger būta) is located on top of
a hill near the village būta shrine. Because it is believed that various būtas of
wild animals as well as other dangerous spirits are wandering about in the
gudḍ e,
̣ it is regarded by most villagers as a fertile but hazardous place filled
with śakti. As we will see next, in a ritual called the kambuḷa, a priest goes
into the gudḍ ẹ alone and calls a būta down from the summit of a mountain.

The kambuḷa ritual and wild śakti

In Perar, the main guttu houses devote some of their fields to the būtas. For
instance, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu has paddy fields called bākimārụ and kam-
buḷa.17 These fields are regarded as the belongings of the deities, and most
of their products are allocated to covering expenditures for the būta rituals.
Among these rituals, one important ritual is held in the kambuḷa field in the
month of jārụdɛ, just before the second crop is transplanted. The purpose of
this ritual is to invite būta śakti from the forests into the agricultural field.
Here, I examine the bat ̣t ̣alu ̣ kān ̣ikɛ kambul ̣a (henceforth kambul ̣a) ritual,
which is dedicated to the būtas and organised by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. Be-
low is a summary of the ritual based on the accounts of Subba of the Mans ̣a
caste,18 who was born in the early 1940s and has played an important role
as a priest (kallāla) in this ritual. His role as a priest is limited to a few days
during the kambuḷa ritual, so he has been otherwise engaged in day labour,
or just getting drunk and hanging around the village.

The day before the kambul ̣a, I [Subba] go to the kambul ̣a field [of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu] in the morning. First, I put white mud on each of the
coconut trees surrounding the field. This turns the kambul ̣a field into a
bride (madụmālụ). Then I also put white mud on a stake (pūkarɛ)19 in the
middle of the field. After that, I go back to the guttu house, where they
give me two pieces of clothing. When it starts to get dark, I take a bath
at home and then put on these clothes and go to a Pūjāri’s house. There,
I sleep until around midnight on a coconut leaf prepared by the head of
the house. They used to prepare palm wine for me too, but nowadays it
is only the leaf. When I wake up, I go to a place called Bolinji Mountain
(Bolinji Gudḍ ̣ɛ). When I reach its summit, I climb onto a giant rock and
call out to all the būtas, including the buffalo,20 to come to the kambul ̣a.
I call out three times: ‘kān ̣ikɛda kambul ̣a, buffalo, oh buffalo! (kān ̣ikɛda
kambul ̣a, eru vo eru)’.
Then I come down to a place called manjotti, just beside the kambul ̣a
field, where my [male] family members are playing double-faced drums
(dōlu) while awaiting my arrival.21 We dance together and when we fin-
ish the dance I throw a stick (kōlu) on the ground, which I have carried
to the mountain with me. Then we come back to the guttu house where
they serve us rice and vegetable curry.
44 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
On the day of the kambul ̣a, a pair of buffalo is taken into a buffalo
house. After reciting a prayer, I tie a yoke (nuga) onto the necks of the
buffalo, hold it, and run onto the kambul ̣a field along with the beasts.
After that, we [Subba and his family members] go back to the guttu
house and dance again in front of the guttu people. The next morning,
I plant a handful of young rice plants (nēji) in the kambul ̣a field, on the
east side of the stake.
(Subba, 19 July 2008)

As seen in this narrative, in advance of the kambul ̣a ritual, the priest goes
up the mountain and calls the buffalo būta. In the ritual, a living buffalo led
by the priest kicks up mud and runs into the paddy field as a ‘bride’. As the
one who temporarily acquires wild śakti by coming and going between the
gudḍ ̣ɛ and the human world, the priest is the first person to plant the young
rice plants and the first to harvest the ears of rice in the kambul ̣a field. The
kambul ̣a ritual can thus be characterised as an agricultural rite, which links
the agricultural fields to the gudḍ ̣ɛ, as well as the humans to the būtas, in
that it involves invoking and encountering the fertile wild śakti from the
forest.22 This is considered an example of the transactional network (Appa-
durai & Breckenridge 1976), which links the realm of humans to that of the
wild through priests and mediums. We will consider this issue in more detail
in Chapter 6.

Būta worship and the granting of land

In addition to the farmlands such as the kambuḷa fields held by the guttu
houses for būta rituals, there are particular plots of land called bākimārụ,
which were originally the property of the village būta shrine. In the past, all
ritual expenses and shrine worker rewards were paid in the form of paddy
produced on this land, and villagers had a duty to take part in the agri-
cultural work there.23 Although the bākimārụ had been managed by each
successive head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, most of the plots were acquired by
tenants after the implementation of the land reform legislation in the 1970s.24
The families of the ritual servants (cākiridakulu) of the village būta shrine
also had some plots of land. According to the oral epic, about 800 years
ago, each cākiridakulu family was granted a portion of tax-free land called
umbal ̣i25 from Koratāi Balardi, who was then the head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu. Some settled on this land, and portions came to be named after their
owners, for example, Paṁbaderɛ Kōdi (Pambada’s Hilltop) or Jōgilɛ Bailụ
(Jōgi’s Plain). Also, these cākiridakulu families enjoyed rights to shares of
the paddy produced on the bākimārụ. Apart from the cākiridakulu families,
in reward for their services and offerings to the būta shrine, other families
of various castes such as Pūjāri, Ācāri, and Kuḍubi also enjoyed rights to
shares of the farm products in the form of the prasāda (blessed offerings
from the altar) distributed during the yearly ritual in the village shrine.
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 45
In Perar, būta worship has thus formed the core of social and economic
relations in the village through the (re)distribution of land, local products,
and prasāda. Perar land and its products are primarily regarded by the vil-
lagers as the embodiment of the būta’s power, and each family is granted
rights to shares of plots of land, local products, and privileges in exchange
for performing different services at the village būta shrine.

The Nāga as the earth goddess and the būta as the owner of the land
Land in Perar is not only used for būta rituals, but also directly linked with
the deities. In Perar, there are numerous small shrines in compounds or at
the ends of agricultural fields. Some of these shrines are for the būtas called
jāgeda daiva (land būta), which are thought to dwell in the land.26 Since each
jāgeda daiva is inseparably related to a particular plot of land, its power
is thought to stay there even if ownership of the land changes. Therefore,
new residents of the land must undertake the role of worshipping the jāgeda
daiva. Otherwise, it is said that they will suffer the curse of the deity.
As seen in this chapter, land in Perar is inseparable from the būtas, which
are regarded as manifestations of the wild śakti filling the forests and fields.
According to the oral epic, the boundary of Perar was determined by Ba-
lavāṇḍi, the royal būta. Management rights and duties for particular plots
of land in the village were also granted by the deities to the higher-ranked
guttu families in exchange for worship. Therefore, the rights of the guttu
houses to their land should be confirmed and performatively executed in
the būta rituals. Since the ultimate ‘owners’ of the land are thought to be
the deities, the people are merely permitted use of the land and enjoyment
of its products.
In this sense, it is not appropriate to call these guttu families ‘landowners’
with exclusive rights on particular plots of land. Rather, they have a duty
to arrange and control the process of the collection and redistribution of
farm products in the village, and also to return part of these products to
the deities through rituals. Similar to Balavāṇḍi allowing the guttu families
to use the land, Koratāi Balardi is said to have bestowed the land to the
cākiridakulu families, allowing them to use the land in exchange for their
services at the village būta shrine; she thus acted as a substitute for the royal
būta. However, as we will see in Part Two, the land tenure system in Perar
has gone through a complex process of continuance and transformation fol-
lowing the changes in the land tenure systems in South Kanara, such as the
introduction of land-tax assessment and land reforms.
To conclude this chapter, I will now briefly outline the worship of Nāga as
the ‘earth goddess’. Nāgas are said to be the deities of the cobra, and there
are numerous small shrines dedicated to them called nāgabana in the forests
near rivers and ponds. A Brahman priest living in the village performs a
ritual every month for the Nāgas, and a special ritual called nāgarapaṅcami
is performed in the month of āti. Unlike ordinary būta rituals, the ritual for
46 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
the Nāgas adheres to the manners of a Brahmanistic ritual. In the nāgara-
paṅcami, the Brahman priest chants a mantra, pours five kinds of liquids
(i.e. milk, curd, gee, coconut juice, and honey) called pañcāmṛta abhiṣēka
onto the stone statue of Nāga, and offers a votive light.
Living cobras are also worshipped as incarnations of Nāgas. If a cobra
appears in a particular place such as a būta shrine or the main hall of a guttu
house, this appearance is interpreted as spiritual message or warning to the
people related to that place. In that case, people often attempt to find the
reason behind the arrival of the animal by means of astrology (aṣṭamaṅgala
praśne). Also, if a person finds the dead body of a cobra, the person and
his/her family must go into mourning for 16 days. As with the jāgeda daiva,
Nāga as the earth goddess raises the question of who is the real ‘owner’ of
the land in Perar. We will consider this issue in more detail in Part Two.
In the next chapter, I will introduce the main deities or royal būtas en-
shrined in the village shrine and outline the roles of the guttu houses and
ritual servants.

Notes
1 According to a document in the village panchayat in Padu Perar, the size of
Mudu Perar is 896.24 hectares and that of Padu Perar is 829.3 hectares. Though
there is a panchayat office in both Mudu Perar and Padu Perar, only the one in
Padu Perar functions as an administrative office.
2 Though Mudu Perar and Padu Perar were administratively separated, they still
function as subdivisions of the larger erstwhile village of Perar, which is con-
sidered the basic unit for the villagers. Therefore, I will also refer to Perar as a
‘village’ in this book.
3 In general, guttu refers to the manor houses, or the families responsible for or-
ganising the rituals in a village (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 1109). As we will see
later, there are 16 houses in Perar called the ‘sixteen guttus’, and they play im-
portant roles in the būta worship at the village level. Also, as we will see in Part
Two, in the Vijayanagara period, a guttu was one of the units of administration
and land-tax collection in South Kanara.
4 According to the same document, as of 2001, in Mudu Perar, 66 people (34 males
and 32 females) belong to the Scheduled Castes (SC) and 15 people (8 males
and 7 females) belong to the Scheduled Tribes (ST). In Padu Perar, 142 people
(74 males and 68 females) are SC and 46 people (22 males and 24 females) are ST.
5 Tables 2.1 and 2.2 were made by the author based on the house-tax record (Padu
Perar Panchayat Office 2008) kept in the village panchayat office in Padu Perar.
6 In Guru Kambuḷa, there is a mosque and the mausoleum of a saint, and this
area’s land was the property of the mosque before the implementation of the
land reform legislation in 1974. On the hilly area in the northeast of Mudu Perar,
there is a St Francisco Xavier church.
7 Though most Baṇṭas are landlords in South Kanara, they are categorised as
OBC because most of them living in the rural area are engaged in agriculture.
8 They are also called Bunts in English. Baṇṭerụ means the warrior or servant
of a king, and Okkelakuḷu means agriculturist. See also Thurston (1975[1909a],
pp. 147–172).
9 For additional general information on Kuḍubi, see Thurston (1975[1909b],
pp. 99–106).
 The land of paddy fields, forests, deities 47
10 For additional general information on Pūjāri (Billava), see Thurston (1975[1909a],
pp. 243–252).
11 For additional general information on Ācāri, see Thurston (1975[1909a], p. 61).
12 In this book, I use ‘Brahman’ instead of ‘Baṭṭrụ’ in line with the relative popular-
ity and distinctiveness of each term.
13 According to Thurston (1975[1909a], p. 375), ‘Ahi-Kshētra’ is probably a Sanskri-
tisation of ‘Haiga’, or ‘the land of snakes’.
14 For more general information on Pambada, see Singh (2002[1993], pp. 1028–1031)
and Thurston (1975[1909d], p. 206).
15 For more general information on Maḍḍyelɛ, see Thurston (1975[1909a], p. 16–18).
16 On the correspondence between the Tuḷu calendar and the solar calendar, see
Table 2.4.
17 In general, bākimārụ indicates a field in front of a house. Also, kambuḷa refers to
a buffalo race held in a paddy field or river canal, to a field in which this buffalo
race takes place, and to a ritual performed in a rice field for fertility (Upadhyaya
1988–1997, pp. 592, 2273). In addition to the kambuḷa, a ritual called the parva
is held in the main hall of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu’s house. In general, parva de-
notes the auspicious day on which festivals and rituals are held. See Upadhyaya
(1988–1997, p. 1958).
18 Subba himself insists that he is an ‘Ādi Dravid ̣a (original Dravidian)’.
19 Pūkarɛ is an ornamental post decorated with flowers set in some selected
paddy fields before specific rituals and buffalo races to ward off evil spirits. See
Upadhyaya (1988–1997, p. 2087).
20 According to local legend, in antiquity a person and two buffalo disappeared on
the mountain. The buffalo called by Subba here are supposed to be the būtas of
those missing buffalo.
21 In the past, on the next day of the kambul ̣a, Subba and his family used to visit
each house of the village dancing and playing instruments. Nowadays they
dance and sing only at the guttu house.
22 According to the villagers, a ritual called panikụ kulluni was also performed
during the kambuḷa ritual. In this ritual, while waiting for the kallāla, the male
relatives of the kallāla drank palm wine, had sexual intercourse with each other,
and danced together. This suggests that male sexual vitality was important in
the kambuḷa ritual, which aimed to enhance the fertility and productivity of the
agricultural field as a ‘bride’. For a general explanation of panikụ kulluni, see
Upadhyaya (1988–1997, p. 1923).
23 Nowadays, shrine worker rewards are paid in cash.
24 Most plots of the land in the name of the village shrine were purchased in the
past by the heads of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. In Part Two, I will investigate the
impact of the land reforms in more detail.
25 In general, umbal ̣i refers to rent-free land for the performance of certain services
in temples or other public services (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 342).
26 In addition to these jāgeda daiva, būtas worshipped by the members of a house
called ‘manɛ daiva (house būta)’, and būtas worshipped by the members of a joint
family called kuṭumada daiva (family būta) are enshrined in these small shrines.
3 The būta shrine and deities in
Perar

Driving from Mudu Perar to Padu Perar, one finds on the right side of the
main road a big gate with an inscription in Kannaḍa: ‘Sri Brammadēvarụ
Iśtadēvate Balavāṇḍi Pilicāmuṇḍi Daivastāna Kinnimajālụ Perar’.1 Three fig-
ures sit atop the gate. The left figure is carrying a sword and riding a tiger; the
middle figure is holding a long sword and riding an elephant; and the right
figure has a moustache and is holding a bow and arrow and riding a horse.
This gate is the entrance to the road to the village būta shrine, and the three
figures are modelled on the main deities: Pilicāmuṇḍi, Arasu, and Balavāṇḍi.
Going through the gate and down the winding road, one sees a red-­tile–
roofed building surrounded by coconut trees and paddy fields. In the middle
of the site, there is a small shrine decorated with flowers. This holy place,
called Baṇṭakaṁba, is where Balavāṇḍi, the main deity in Perar, is believed to
have appeared.2 During the yearly ritual (nēma), priests and devotees carry
sacred objects from the treasure house (baṇḍārada koṭya) to Baṇṭakaṁba.
The mukkāldi, the priest-medium of Balavāṇḍi, is then possessed by the de-
ity in front of the small shrine and gives an oracle to the heads of the guttus.
As we will see in Chapter 5, on the last day of the nēma, the ritual of the
būta’s judgement (vākụ piripuni) is held in this place.
Walking south from Baṇṭakaṁba on the footpath between the paddy
fields, one comes to a large gate painted vermillion and cobalt blue. Be-
yond the gate, there is a courtyard with several buildings roofed with mossy
red tiles, and it is surrounded by a cloister. This is the village būta shrine
(daivastāna), the base of būta worship in Perar. Enshrined here are Bala-
vāṇḍi, Arasu, Pilicāmuṇḍi, and the highest-ranked deity, called Bramma.
In this chapter, I will outline the būta worship in this village shrine. First,
I will sketch the structure of the shrine and Baṇṭakaṁba. Next, I will briefly
describe the characteristics of the main deities in the shrine. Finally, I will
discuss the people and families who undertake religious roles.

The village shrine in Perar

Most of the important buildings concerning būta worship are located in the
easternmost part of Padu Perar, near the border of Mudu Perar. The most
important places are the village būta shrine, Baṇṭakaṁba, and the treasure
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 49
house. The shrine is the centre of būta worship in Perar; Baṇṭakaṁba is the
birthplace of Balavāṇḍi; and the treasure house is the place in which the
sacred objects for the būta ritual are kept. The three places form a roughly
equilateral triangle, as they are each approximately 100 meters apart. Dur-
ing the nēma in the village shrine, the priests, heads of the guttus, musicians,
and other ritual workers march the sacred objects from the treasure house
to Baṇṭakaṁba. After offering a votive light to the small shrine, they march
to the village shrine to conduct the main rituals. The land circumscribed by
these three places is a double-cropping paddy field called majalụ. During
the nēma, which is held after the cultivation of the second crop in the month
of māyi, one finds a row of many stools on this field. Behind Baṇṭakaṁba
and the treasure house, there is a verdant coconut grove, and behind the
village shrine, there is a hill, on top of which Pilicāmuṇḍi is enshrined.
Daivastāna consists of several buildings on a spacious ground s­ urrounded
by a cloister.3 Passing through the main entrance from the east and enter-
ing the precincts, one can see in the foreground a two-storey shrine for
Bramma called Bramma guṇḍa. A rule in the oral epic prohibits two-­storey
­structures in Perar except for this Bramma shrine and the house of the
­Pejattāya. ­Unlike the rather simple structure of the būta shrines popular
in this area, the Bramma shrine is ornately structured. It has stone steps
and a stone lantern, is equipped with an offertory box and a bulletin board,
and is always decorated with flowers and votive lights. The exterior of the
Bramma shrine is just like that of a Hindu temple. Looking into the shrine
from its opening, one can see through the dark a statue of the brammaliṅga
on a stone pedestal lit by votive lights. The statue is surrounded by a golden
halo called a prabāvali.
A Brahman priest called an asrāṇṇa is stationed at the Bramma shrine
and conducts the daily ritual. He purifies the brammaliṅga and other
statues with water, makes an offering of jasmine flowers and betel leaves
(­baccirɛ: Piper betle), and then offers a votive light while chanting a man-
tra. South of the Bramma shrine, there is a tower with a mossy peaked
roof. This building is called a māḍa, a shrine for Arasu. A steep staircase
links the ground to the opening on top of the building. The asrāṇṇa climbs
these stairs to offer a votive light and descends them facing the opening
in order not to turn his back on Arasu. To the east of the māḍa, there is
an altar called a koḍiyaḍi. Though usually there is no object on the altar,
during the nēma, it is beautifully decorated with lights and flowers, and the
sacred objects brought from the treasure house are placed on it. South of
the māḍa and koḍiyaḍi, there is a building with windows and an entrance
facing the north. This is called the mūverullākulɛ cāvaḍi (hall for the three
kings), and there are wooden altars (maṅcāvu: bed) for Balavāṇḍi, Arasu,
and Pilicāmuṇḍi inside the building.4
Passing through the west gate and walking out, one finds a pond of green
water and a Nāga shrine under a big tree. This enshrines the stone statue
of the snake goddess—her lower half is a snake and nine snakes raise their
heads from her head like a halo. South of the village būta shrine, there is
50 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
a relatively high hill. At the foot of the hill, there is an entrance for the
long approach to the Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine. During the nēma, the priests, the
heads of the guttus, and the musicians ascend the narrow stone steps to
the summit, offer votive lights at the Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine, and then return
to the precincts of the main shrine. Since most rituals are performed at
night, one can see from the shrine precincts the flickering light carried by
the asrāṇṇa moving in the woods, accompanied by the faint sound of wind
instruments.

The three būtas and the ambiguous deity Bramma

As already mentioned, Balavāṇḍi, Arasu, Pilicāmuṇḍi, and Bramma are the
main deities enshrined in the village būta shrine in Perar. The first three
are regarded as the royal būtas (rājanụ daiva) and are together called the
three lords (uḷḷākḷụ5). Meanwhile, Bramma or Bermerụ, who is often identi-
fied with the Hindu god Brahma and is related to the earth goddess Nāga,
­occupies an ambiguous position in būta worship. I will briefly overview the
characteristics of each deity below.

Balavāṇḍi, the deity that appeared in the land of Perar

Balavāṇḍi occupies the central position in būta worship in Perar. As we will
see in detail in the next chapter, Balavāṇḍi was believed to have appeared
from Baṇṭakaṁba, and also to have taken Arasu and Bramma to this land.
While other būtas such as Arasu and Pilicāmuṇḍi are enshrined throughout
South Kanara, Balavāṇḍi has only the shrine in Perar. Balavāṇḍi is therefore
regarded as the unique and principal deity in the village shrine. Although
Balavāṇḍi is often described as a brave fighter with a moustache and bow
and arrow, the deity is regarded as androgynous. As we will see in C
­ hapter 5,
­Balavāṇḍi—incarnated in a Pambada dancer-medium—first dances wear-
ing a luxurious skirt, and then changes garments, dons a moustache, takes
up a bow and arrow, and challenges Bramma to a fight.

The king of būtas, Arasu

The būta called Arasu is also called uḷḷākḷụ. In the oral epic, Arasu is de-
scribed as the king of būtas and is served by many followers. Arasu is of a
higher rank than Balavāṇḍi and Pilicāmuṇḍi, and thus when these three dei-
ties are depicted in art, he is placed at the centre. In the nēma also, the ritual
for Arasu is conducted first, before the rituals for the other two deities. The
high position of Arasu, however, does not necessarily entail the centrality
of the deity in the village būta shrine. Though Arasu holds a higher position
than Balavāṇḍi, it is Balavāṇḍi who occupies the central role in both the oral
epic and the nēma in Perar. Most devotees regard the village būta shrine as
the ‘Balavāṇḍi shrine’.
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 51
The būta of the wild tiger, Pilicāmuṇḍi
In paintings and statues, Pilicāmuṇḍi is always described as a figure riding on
a tiger, as this deity is regarded as the būta of the wild tiger. This gives rise to
some unique features in the worship of Pilicāmuṇḍi in the village būta shrine.
For instance, while other deities are enshrined in the main shrine, Pilicāmuṇḍi
is enshrined in a small hilltop shrine. In addition, unlike Balavāṇḍi and Arasu,
who are believed to be vegetarians, Pilicāmuṇḍi is believed to be meat-eating.
During the nēma, only vegetables such as paddy, bananas, and coconuts are
offered to Balavāṇḍi and Arasu inside the precincts of the main shrine; mean-
while, live fowl are offered to Pilicāmuṇḍi outside the precinct. Pilicāmuṇḍi,
however, is not always in a marginal position. As we will see in Chapter 5, on
the last day of the nēma, there is a prolonged ritual ­especially for Pilicāmuṇḍi.
In addition, the ritual called vākụ piripuni, in which devotees consult the
deities about their problems and receive oracles, is held at Baṇṭakaṁba. In
this ritual, it is Pilicāmuṇḍi incarnated in a Pambada dancer-medium and
­Balavāṇḍi incarnated in the mukkāldi who give judgements on the various
problems of the people. Thus, while Pilicāmuṇḍi is in a rather marginal po-
sition in the village būta shrine, the deity plays the important role of giving
oracles and blessings to the devotees in the last ritual of the nēma.
As seen above, Balavāṇḍi, who originated in the area, occupies the central
position in the village būta shrine. In terms of the rank of the deities, how-
ever, Arasu is dominant in the shrine as the ‘king’. Meanwhile, Pilicāmuṇḍi
takes on the important role of judge in the nēma. As we will see next, over
these three deities, it is actually Bramma who occupies the highest position
and plays another important role in the village būta shrine.

The ambiguous deity Bramma

Bramma, also called Bermerụ, occupies a special position in the village
būta shrine. Bramma is regarded as the highest-ranked būta who governs
the other būtas; at the same time, the deity is often identified with the Hindu
god Brahma.6 As already seen, in the village būta shrine, only Bramma is
enshrined in a temple-like guṇḍa. In addition, a Brahman priest called an
asrāṇṇa is stationed at the shrine to conduct a daily ritual. Unlike other
būtas, who manifest themselves through spirit possession, Bramma never
manifests himself except in the figure of the brammaliṅga. Nevertheless, in
both the daily rituals and the nēma, the Bramma shrine is very important;
it is carefully attended to by the asrāṇṇa, and devotees always first visit the
Bramma shrine and receive prasāda from the hands of the asrāṇṇa before
they visit the other places in the precincts. In the nēma, the Bramma shrine
becomes the central stage of the rituals. As we will see in Chapter 5, the
main actors such as the priests, heads of the guttus, and other ritual workers
march around the Bramma shrine and koḍiyaḍi many times. In addition,
the Pambada dancer-medium possessed by Balavāṇḍi dances in front of the
guṇḍa to challenge Bramma to a fight.
52 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
As shown in the role of the asrāṇṇa, since Bramma has the ambigu-
ous characteristics of both a būta and a Hindu god, some elements of the
Brahmanical ritual are contained in the village būta shrine. At first glance,
this seems like an example of Sanskritisation: an indigenous ritual of
­lower-caste people transforms itself by adopting and imitating Brahmani-
cal rituals (Srinivas 1952, pp. 30–31).7 In the case of the village būta shrine
in Perar, however, the existence of the asrāṇṇa and the Brahmanical ritual
indicates other intricate issues that cannot be interpreted merely as an ex-
ample of Sanskritisation. While the attendance of Brahmans such as the
asrāṇṇa and Pejattāya is indispensable to the būta ritual today, some vil-
lagers remain ambivalent about the entry of Brahmans into būta worship,
which had originally been conducted by non-Brahmans such as Baṇṭa and
Pūjāri. Meanwhile, the Brahman priests concerned in būta worship in the
village do not just apply Brahmanical rituals to the būtas, but also learn
the ritual practices unique to each būta. This suggests that būta worship
has not been simply Sanskritised, but rather brings the Brahman priests
into it.
Moreover, while Bramma is often identified with the Hindu god Brahma,
the deity is also closely related to the earth goddess Nāga. The ambiguous
identity of Bramma has been one of the most controversial issues in the
disputes concerning authority over the village būta shrine. As we will see in
Chapter 8, in the court case between the asrāṇṇa and the first guttu family
in the 1930s, the point of dispute became whether the Bramma guṇḍa was a
būta shrine or a Hindu temple, and whether the principal deity in the village
shrine was Balavāṇḍi or Bramma.8

The people responsible for būta worship

The būta ritual in Perar is based on a sophisticated system called kaṭṭụ (cus-
tom or law), which governs the people in the village. Below, I will provide an
overview of the main ritual roles and the people responsible for the rituals
in the village būta shrine.
Each guttu family has specific duties in the būta rituals and management
of the village būta shrine. The role of each guttu at the shrine is inherited
within the respective family. As shown in Table 3.1, the prominent families
in the village in relation to the būta ritual comprise a Brahman family called
the Pejattāya and the 16 guttus. Except for one Kuḍubi family and three
Pūjāri families, the other 12 families are Baṇṭa.9 These guttus are hierarchi-
cally ordered from the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu at the top to the Pērīrụ guttu at the
bottom. Each guttu family has various roles and duties in organising rituals
at the village shrine. The first and second guttus have primary responsibility
for the patronage and management of būta worship at the village level.10
The roles of the 16 guttus are complemented by another 16 families called
the ulaguttu (sub-guttus). Under these guttu and ulaguttu families, dozens of
people called cākiridakulu (servants/people in service) render various services
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 53
Table 3.1 The prominent families in Perar in relation to būta worship

General name Status Name of the family Caste System of

inheritance

Pejattāya Highest Pejattāya Brahman Patrilineal

Sixteen guttus 1 Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu Baṇṭa Matrilineal

2 Brāṇabeṭṭu guttu Baṇṭa Matrilineal
3 Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu Baṇṭa Matrilineal
4 Pāldaḍi guttu Baṇṭa Matrilineal
5 Alakɛ guttu Baṇṭa Matrilineal
6 Kolakɛbailụ Baṇṭa Matrilineal
7 Parāri Baṇṭa Matrilineal
8 Gōldadi Baṇṭa Matrilineal
9 Mairōḍi Baṇṭa Matrilineal
10 Naḍi Baṇṭa Matrilineal
11 Boṭṭottu Baṇṭa Matrilineal
12 Uliya Baṇṭa Matrilineal
13 Śāstāvu Kuḍubi Patrilineal
14 Kabetti Pūjāri Matrilineal
15 Tanya Pūjāri Matrilineal
16 Pērīrụ Pūjāri Matrilineal

for būta worship. These people are from particular families who belong to sev-
eral service castes in the village, for example, Maḍḍyelɛ (washermen), ­Puruṣa
or Jōgi (musicians), Baṇḍāri (barbers), and Pambada (dancers).
While the Pejattāya occupies the highest position in the ritual hierarchy
in the būta shrine, it is actually the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, represented ritually
by the gaḍipatinārụ, who has assumed control of the shrine’s management
as well as the ritual practices. The priests (mukkāldi) for Balavāṇḍi and
Pilicāmuṇḍi are selected from the male members of the Alakɛ guttu and the
Uliya guttu, respectively.
The social ranking of these main families and castes in the village corre-
sponds to their hierarchical order in the būta ritual. In Perar, the people who
often compete with each other for ritual status are not those who belong to
different caste groups, but are instead guttu families of the same caste. The
hierarchy of the guttu families, which is based on the oral epic, is performa-
tively confirmed and dramatically publicised in the nēma: the main deities
incarnated in the Pambada dancer-mediums dance around the heads of the
guttus and call the names of the families in order of their rank. Next, I will
outline the main ritual roles in the village būta shrine.

The gaḍipatinārụ
The primary patron of the village shrine is the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu head called
the gaḍipatinārụ, and this person has command over all other guttu mem-
bers and ritual workers. The present gaḍipatinārụ is Gangādara Rai, born
in 1931. A tall figure in a white cloth and turban, sunglasses on his chiselled
54 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
face, he possesses an air of dignity and elegance. After his elder brother, the
previous gaḍipatinārụ, died in 1999, he took over the role in 2001. To select
the next gaḍipatinārụ, first a candidate is chosen by the core members of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Then they consult Balavāṇḍi about their selection
through a ritual. If acknowledged by the deity, the person can then be ap-
pointed the gaḍipatinārụ; if not, the family selects another person. The term
‘gaḍipatinārụ’ originally indicates the person who takes authority/responsi-
bility (gaḍi), and this duty must be fulfilled to one’s dying days. Moreover,
one must obey various rules and taboos. Since the gaḍipatinārụ contacts
the deities and mediates the relationship between the people and deities, he
should always keep himself pure and clean. Therefore, it is taboo for him
to eat and drink outside, or to touch or even see a person regarded as being
ritually polluted by death, childbirth, or menstruation.
In the village būta shrine, the gaḍipatinārụ plays a significant role both in
shrine management and in ritual practice. Supported by the madyaste, the
head of the second guttu, the gaḍipatinārụ is in charge of the management
of the shrine’s property and of other administrative work concerning the
būta ritual. Moreover, he is responsible for dealing with the būtas and their
śakti. While the Pambada dancer-mediums embody būtas in the ritual, the
gaḍipatinārụ plays the role of their most intimate caretaker. In every būta
ritual at the shrine, the gaḍipatinārụ responds to every word and action of
the deity, appeases the deity’s anger, and speaks to the deity on behalf of the
other devotees. Gangādara Rai refers to his intimate relationship with the
būtas as follows:

Only the gaḍipatinārụ can physically touch the deity—nobody else can
do it. Only the gaḍipatinārụ can assuage the deity’s thirst.11 The gaḍi-
patinārụ has adikāra to the deity and also the deity has adikāra to the
gaḍipatinārụ. To hand a sword to the deity and receive it from her is the
adikāra of the gaḍipatinārụ.
(2 July 2008)

As this narrative indicates, people often mention adikāra in relation to

the relationship between humans and deities. Adikāra originates from the
­Sanskrit word adhikāra, which means authority, royalty, rank, and right
(Monier-Williams 2008 [1899], p. 20). In Tuḷu, this word has a broader mean-
ing, including authority, power, rank, office, administration, governing, and
responsibility (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 96). In the context of būta ­worship,
adikāra describes the mutual rights and responsibilities of humans and
­būtas. It also indicates the privilege of the caretakers who have the right and
responsibility to maintain an intimate relationship with the deities.
The gaḍipatinārụ is responsible not only for the būta ritual in the village
shrine but also for all the būta rituals performed in Perar. He is expected to
attend every ritual (kola), and if he cannot, a male member of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu should attend it on his behalf. The duty of the gaḍipatinārụ is thus held
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 55
by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu as a whole. This is also shown by the fact that the
title of the gaḍipatinārụ is primarily passed down from mother’s brother to
sister’s son.

The mukkāldi
In many parts of South Kanara, the roles of the būta priests, called māni
or pātri, are played by Pūjāri. Although there are several mānis in Perar,
Baṇṭa priests called mukkāldi mainly conduct the rituals for the rājanụ
daivas, or royal būtas, in the village būta shrine. The present mukkāldi of
­Balavāṇḍi is Bālākrishna Shetty, who was born in 1972 and belongs to the
Alakɛ guttu family. With thick black eyebrows, moustache, and penetrating
eyes, Bālākrishna is a person of imposing presence. Despite his rather young
age, he occupies the leading position among the heads of the guttus in Perar.
He has a profound knowledge of the rituals and customs concerning the oral
epic, history, and būta worship.
In 2005, Bālākrishna succeeded the title mukkāldi from his mother’s
brother. Similar to the case of the gaḍipatinārụ, the mukkāldi title is hered-
itarily succeeded within the kuṭuma (matrilineal joint family). After he was
selected as the mukkāldi, Bālākrishna was purified by the asrāṇṇa in a ritual
called kalaśasnāna. In this ritual, the asrāṇṇa pours kalaśanīrụ (­sacred ­water
in a pot) on a person who will render a sacred duty.12
As we will see in the next section, the mukkāldi and Pambada
­dancer-mediums have several similarities in terms of their roles in būta
worship. Nevertheless, they are regarded as profoundly different in the
ritual system in the village būta shrine. One of the differences between
them is the mode and frequency of their possession by deities. In the case
of the Pambada dancer-mediums, they are possessed by the rājanụ dai-
vas only in the nēma.13 Meanwhile, the mukkāldi is responsible for every
būta ritual performed in the village from the sōṇa month to paggu month,
and during this period, the deity frequently possesses him. Bālākrishna
explains this as follows:

The work of the Pambada is to dance with makeup and a costume in

the nēma. But the mukkāldi invokes daiva even in his plain dress. The
Pambada cannot enter the inside of the shrine. It is the mukkāldi who
conducts the rituals inside the shrine. From the month of sōṇa to the
beginning of the month of paggu, the mukkāldi does so much work. For
instance, sōṇa saṅkrāṅti, parva, Māri pūjā, kambuḷa … it is the adikāra
for the mukkāldi to conduct these rituals.
(2 July 2008)

Throughout the nēma, the mukkāldi continuously engages in the ritual. As

the priest as well as the medium of Balavāṇḍi, he swiftly transitions between
states of being possessed and self-possession, and he occasionally manifests
56 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
physical power beyond his ordinary strength. He cannot control the over-
whelming force of spirit possession.

Balavāṇḍi daiva is different from other deities. She follows her own
wishes and desires. It is not necessary to dance and play music [to in-
voke her]. She can come anytime. Throughout the ritual, she remains
in my body. Even when I’m just staying at home, she can come into me.
(Bālākrishna Shetty, 2 July 2008)

As we will see in Chapter 5, the mukkāldi possessed by Balavāṇḍi marches

around the shrine precincts many times, offers votive lights at the altar, and
recites oracles. Even when in his normal state, he cannot rest. As one of the
heads of the guttus and the assistant to the gaḍipatinārụ, Bālākrishna must
carefully organise the whole ritual process. In addition, in the more small-
scale rituals held in each guttu house, the mukkāldi plays an important role.
Embodying the principal deity, Balavāṇḍi, he states oracles, gives various
orders to people, and finally blesses them. The figure of Balavāṇḍi incar-
nated in the mukkāldi is always filled with overwhelming power and anger,
which arouses awe in others.
Both in rituals and in daily life, the mukkāldi, who belongs to a high-
ranked guttu family and holds an influential position in the village, exer-
cises an authority that exceeds that of other ritual workers, including the
Pambada dancer-mediums. As we will see in Chapter 8, the authority and
predominance of the mukkāldi influences disputes and negotiation among
people concerning būta worship.

Pambada dancer-mediums
In addition to the mukkāldi, the Pambada dancer-mediums play a vital
role in the village būta shrine. While the mukkāldi works as the priest, the
­Pambadas are unique in their ability to impersonate būtas, to dance, and to
recite pāḍdana. In South Kanara, those who belong to the Pambada, Parava,
and Nalike are engaged in būta worship as dancer-mediums. In relation to
būta worship, these three groups are hierarchically distinguished from each
other: the Pambada dancer-mediums mainly perform the ­h igher-ranked
­būtas called rājanụ daiva, and the Nalike dancer-mediums perform the
­lower-ranked būtas.14 While most būtas performed by Pambadas are en-
shrined in the main būta shrine in the village, most būtas performed by
Nalikes, such as Satyadēvate, Kallurṭi, and Mantradēvate, are enshrined
in small household shrines and altars. Regarded as inferior to the rājanụ
daiva, they are often called kāṭụ būta, or the wild, untamed būta. For most
villagers, the kāṭụ būtas are more familiar than the rājanụ daiva enshrined
in the village būta shrine. Since there are no Nalike in Perar, Nalike dancer-­
mediums are called from other villages to perform the rituals for these būtas.
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 57
In Perar, the male members of a Pambada family living in the village ren-
der services to the village būta shrine as dancer-mediums. Though Pambadas
are generally matrilineal, the profession of dancer-medium is hereditarily
succeeded from father to son; close relationships and collaboration among
paternal kin are also necessary to their performance. Among the Pambadas
in Perar, two youths—Jayānanda and his second cousin Yatish Pambada—
play central roles as the dancer-mediums of the three main būtas: Balavāṇḍi,
Arasu, and Pilicāmuṇḍi. In addition to their roles in the village būta shrine,
they perform at several small shrines in Perar. The areas each is responsible
for is decided by the rājanụ daiva that each performs: Yatish, who performs
Balavāṇḍi, has the right to dance in Mudu Perar; while Jayānanda, who per-
forms Arasu and Pilicāmuṇḍi, has the right to dance in Padu Perar. Each
should not encroach on the other’s domain, as this may cause tension and
trouble between them.
Yatish, born in 1974, lives with his mother, wife, and children in a house
near the village būta shrine. He devotes himself to his duties as būta
­dancer-medium and wears a white cloth and small gold earrings that sym-
bolise his profession. He is a cheerful and modest person who maintains
good relations with the other villagers, including the guttu heads. As we will
see in Chapter 5, as the dancer-medium of Balavāṇḍi, Yatish plays the most
important role in the nēma, which becomes a focal point.
According to Yatish, when one is appointed as dancer-medium of the rā-
janụ daiva, the purification ritual is performed at the Bramma guṇḍa; one
then receives a gold bracelet from the gaḍipatinārụ. Similar to the gaḍipat-
inārụ and mukkāldi, the dancer-medium must fulfil his duty until he is on
his deathbed. Whatever the reason, he is never allowed to cancel a būta
ritual that he is supposed to attend.
The other main dancer, Jayānanda, was born in 1975. As the dancer-­
medium of both Arasu and Pilicāmuṇḍi, he performs on the first and last
day of the nēma. On the last day, in the long ritual that continues for more
than ten hours, he dances, recites pāḍdana, speaks oracles, and judges peo-
ple’s problems as Pilicāmuṇḍi. Jayānanda is intelligent and gentle-mannered
and has deep knowledge of būta rituals. His pride and principles distin-
guish him as a prominent dancer, but at the same time, they often cause him
trouble with others concerning būta worship. As we will see in Chapter 8,
Jayānanda is dissatisfied with the ways the nēma has been organised by the
higher-ranked guttus. Taking the side of an influential person from outside
the village claiming to promote the democratisation of the būta worship,
Jayānanda has incurred the displeasure of the guttus.
Yatish and Jayānanda, through their performance involving spirit pos-
session as dancer-mediums, manifest the wild śakti of the deities in the
ritual. I will closely examine the experience of these dancer-mediums in
Chapter 7.
As seen above, būta worship in Perar is based on a hierarchical system au-
thorised by the kaṭṭụ that consists of the 16 guttus, the priests, and the other
58 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
ritual workers. Among them, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu occupies the most in-
fluential position, as local manor as well as the main organiser of the village
būta shrine. The role of the highest guttu in būta worship corresponds to
that of kings and chiefs in relation to Hindu deities (e.g. Dirks 1987, p. 304,
1992, p. 225). In the Hindu temple, the king and other devotees mediated by
priests present offerings to gods, and in return they enjoy the distribution of
honours accompanied by various rights (Appadurai & Breckenridge 1976;
Appadurai 1981, pp. 20–37). Similar to this, the guttu families and other
ritual workers enjoy various rights in return for their contribution to the
būta shrine. The rights and duties of the people concerning būta worship,
which the word adikāra indicates, are distributed to them through ritual
transaction with the būtas.
Here, it is noteworthy that the rights and duties are never given to the
devotees automatically, but rather they should be re-approved by the deities
each time. Although customary law dictates that each family should execute
its adikāra, there remains an essential uncertainty, since whether families
can really assume their adikāra or not depends on the approval of the būtas
within the ritual. Even the guttu families cannot maintain their authority
without being acknowledged by the deities. In this sense, būta śakti, which
is fundamentally contingent and uncontrollable, is superior to the mundane
power of the guttus.
In the next chapter, I will examine the pāḍdana, which is one of the bases
of the relationship between the villagers and the deities in Perar.

Notes
1 This is the formal name of the village būta shrine. Brammadēvarụ and Iśtadē-
vate are alternate names of Bramma and Arasu, respectively. Kinnimajālụ is the
general name of the place consisting of Baṇṭakaṁba, village būta shrine, and
treasure house.
2 Kinnimajālụ and the village būta shrine are collectively called Kinnimajālụ
sāna.
3 Though it is believed that the village būta shrine has an 800-year history, these
buildings were rebuilt in 1965. As we will see in Chapter 8, since 2013, the shrine
has again undergone a controversial process of rebuilding.
4 There are altars for būtas in the houses of the higher-ranked guttus, and a Brahman
priest living in the village performs rituals such as the saṅkrāṅti at these altars.
5 Uḷḷākḷụ is the honorific title of a person of high rank. See Upadhyaya (1988–1997,
p. 410).
6 Bramma’s identity and origin are controversial issues among folklorists. See
Padmanabha (1976, pp. 24–39), Upadhyaya (1996, p. 202), and Claus (1978).
7 Srinivas (1952) first described the concept of Sanskritisation as the adaptation
of Brahmanical rituals, beliefs, and ways of life through which low castes seek
to improve their position in the caste hierarchy. For this Sanskritisation, the
coupled notions of purity and impurity are important as they systematise and
maintain the structural distance between different castes.
8 It is believed that one rank below Balavāṇḍi, Arasu, and Pilicāmuṇḍi, there are
five more būtas; moreover, under these five būtas, there are another seven būtas.
 The būta shrine and deities in Perar 59
This is expressed as ‘one Bramma, three uḷḷākḷụ, five kāraṇīkerụ (those who can
do anything), and seven māyagarlu (those who are intangible)’.
9 Geographically speaking, these guttu families are selected in order from Mudu
Perar and Padu Perar.
10 Among the 16 guttus, the top five families have maintained close relationships
through marriage.
11 In the nēma, Balavāṇḍi incarnated by the mukkāldi receives a coconut from the
gaḍipatinārụ and pours its water on the ground.
12 This ritual is generally called kalaśaśuddhi (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, pp. 715, 716).
Pambada dancer-mediums also receive this ritual purification every year.
13 Though the Pambadas are possessed by the royal būtas in the village būta shrine
only in the nēma, they act as the dancer-mediums of other būtas in several other
rituals both inside and outside Perar.
14 It is generally regarded that Paravas occupy the rank between Pambada and
Nalike.
4 Pāḍdana
The oral epics of deities

The traditional relationship between the būtas and the main families in
Perar, such as the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the Pejattāya, is described in an
oral epic called the pāḍdana. The pāḍdana narrates not only the origins
of the būtas, but also their original relationship with the people who serve
them. As we will see in Chapter 5, the dancer-mediums of Arasu, Balavāṇḍi,
and Pilicāmuṇḍi sing the pāḍdana in the nēma. In front of the heads of the
guttus and hundreds of spectators, the dancer-medium embodying the royal
būta sings about mythological events such as battles and amicable settle-
ments among būtas, and about interactions between būtas and humans. It
is the pāḍdana that most villagers refer to as the history of Perar. In this
­chapter, I will introduce the main oral epics in Perar, beginning with the
pāḍdana of Nādu, who is an earlier avatar of Balavāṇḍi.1

The life of Nādu

The birth of Nādu
Once upon a time, when Mangaluru was called Maṅgāra, the land was
ruled by a king called Chandrashekara. In the place called Gurupura in
Maṅgāra, there was a guttu family called Doninja Gothli. In this family,
there was a couple called Satya Bannar and Lakshmi. Since they had no
child, they prayed to Brammabermerụ2 to be blessed with a baby. Hearing
this prayer, Brammabermerụ ordered one of his followers to come into being
on the earth as a human child. Satya Bannar found this child when walking
along the riverside and took him into their home. The couple raised the child
with joy. Since they had found the child that they had been longing for, they
named the child Nādu (‘to seek’). When he had grown up and acquired an
education, Nādu started to teach martial arts at a place called Nādi Doninja.
Satya Bannar achieved fame as one of the most efficient subjects of the
king. Because he stood high in his master’s favour, however, another sub-
ject killed him out of fierce jealousy. Due to the deep sorrow of losing her
­husband, Lakshmi soon killed herself. Nādu, his foster parents now both
dead, stopped believing in any gods.
 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 61
The travels of Nādu and the king
Before the birth of Chandrashekara, who would become king, his maternal
uncle had taken a vow that if a nephew were born, he would present offerings
to the gods enshrined in the Mahālingeśvara temple at Venōr.3 To fulfil this
vow for his uncle, the king would have to make a pilgrimage to the temple.
The offerings consisted of a small golden statue of a child, a silver cradle, and
a handful of coins. Since the king did not know the way to Venōr, he decided
to take Nādu as a guide and sent a messenger to him. Nādu received a letter
from the king with the message that he should come to the king straightaway.
Nādu hurried to the palace, and when he arrived, the king explained why
he had called him. Nādu then expressed his resolution to the king: ‘Your
­Majesty, I will accompany you. However, on the way to Venōr, I will never
pray to any gods, either in front of a god’s statue or in front of a temple’.
The king accepted all Nādu’s wishes, including that a white horse and
­parasol be prepared for him along with a palanquin for the king. Addition-
ally, on the journey to Venōr, Nādu would lead the way, while on their way
home, the king would take the lead. The carriers of the palanquin, decorated
with flowers, began their journey from the palace and headed towards the
temple. After a while, they reached the Manjunātheśvara temple. From there,
they went on to the Sbrahmanya temple at Kudupu. In both temples, the
king presented offerings to the gods. However, Nādu neither stepped in-
side the temple, nor got down from his horse. After passing through many
other places, they arrived at Nāda Bailụ, where there was a shrine to Bram-
mabermerụ. While the king visited the shrine, Nādu stood outside. At this
moment, the deity Brammabermerụ appeared to Nādu and said, ‘Now, you
can go. When you come back, I will take care of you’. This was the deity’s
promise to Nādu, who answered: ‘I will come back along the way I’m going’.

The battle between Nādu and Brammabermerụ

The king and Nādu passed through the vast land of Nāda Bailụ and finally
arrived at the Mahālingeśvara temple, where the king dedicated his offer-
ings to the gods. That night, they attended a ritual in Venōr and then started
out for home at daybreak. On their way home, the king took the lead on
the palanquin, with Nādu riding behind him on horseback. When they ap-
proached Nāda Bailụ, a Brahman wearing a sacred thread suddenly took
the reins of Nādu’s horse and stopped them. The Brahman was actually the
deity Brammabermerụ, who had disguised himself as a human being. Nādu
and Brammabermerụ glared at each other for a second, and then they be-
gan a great battle, which culminated in Brammabermerụ turning Nādu’s
horse to stone and forcing Nādu to disappear. When the king turned back,
he could not find Nādu. When he prayed for him to come back, he heard
a strange voice: ‘Today, the curse on Nādu has ended. He will appear at
­K innimajālụ in Perra’.
62 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
In this way, Perra became the land from which Nādu appeared as
Balavāṇḍi.

The oral epic summarised above shows the ambiguous relationship between
Balavāṇḍi and Bramma (Brammabermerụ). Balavāṇḍi, once a follower of
Bramma, was banished to the human world by his master’s curse and then
killed by him in order to be transformed into a būta. As the next section
illustrates, despite this antagonistic relationship with Bramma, Balavāṇḍi
took the brammaliṅga to Perar to install it in the village shrine. Next,
I will explain the pāḍdana narrating the encounter of Balavāṇḍi and Arasu
(uḷḷākḷụ).

The story of Arasu, king of the būtas

The uḷḷākḷụ and the four guttu heads
Once upon a time, there were four guttu families. The names of the fami-
lies were Kanaka Bottu Janana, Gundya’s Janana, Kelinga’s Janana, and
Tumbe Jāla Janana. Though each family had paddy fields, none of them had
buffalo with which to cultivate the land. The guttu heads then heard that a
fair for buffalo would be held in a place called Thippinge Neshēnki. They
sold their bangles for 300 varaha4 and tied this money in their shawls. They
also acquired 700 varaha by selling their chains and put this money in their
pockets. After taking breakfast, the four guttu heads started their journey
with their retinue.
After passing through many places, they finally reached Tippinje
­Neshēnki, where they found more than 4,000 buffalo. Each chose a buffalo
to his liking and brought it to a place called Gujjaragoli. Resting there, they
saw four men carrying coconuts and split coconut leaves and asked them,
‘Why are you carrying those things?’ ‘We are taking them to the nēma for
the uḷḷākḷụ at Chavundeśvari. Why don’t you come with us?’ ‘Sure, let’s go.
Please guide us’. Leaving their retinue and buffalo, the four heads set out for
Chavundeśvari.
They arrived at Chavundeśvari in time for the performance of the nēma
for the uḷḷākḷụ. The uḷḷākḷụ and four guttu heads saw each other, and the
uḷḷākḷụ gave them areca flowers, coconuts, and betel nuts. When they re-
turned to Gujjaragoli with these things, however, they could not find their
retinue nor their buffalo. They searched for them everywhere, but it was all
in vain. ‘What sort of magic is this? What went wrong?’ they lamented. They
decided to visit the uḷḷākḷụ again to consult him about what had happened.
They pleaded to the uḷḷākḷụ, ‘When we came back with prasāda, we found
neither our retinue nor the buffalo. Please make them appear again’. The
uḷḷākḷụ asked them, ‘If I do this for you, what will you do for me?’ ‘We will
 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 63
build shrines for you in our four countries’. The uḷḷākḷụ seemed satisfied
with this answer and said, ‘Go back to the same place. You will find your
buffalo and retinue’. When they arrived back in Gujjaragoli, they found
their ­buffalo and retinue, just as promised. Surprised and overjoyed, each
of them went back home and built a shrine for the uḷḷākḷụ.

Balavāṇḍi’s invitation to the uḷḷākḷụ

The uḷḷākḷụ decided to make a pilgrimage to the east of the Māveri Ganga to
perform ablutions. He went there from his palace on a palanquin, and after
performing ablutions, he and his retinue started on their way back home.
On this return journey, they took a rest at a place called Antharanga Kaṭṭe.
Balavāṇḍi then heard that the uḷḷākḷụ was coming and declared, ‘We don’t
have a king of the daiva in our country. I will take the uḷḷākḷụ here’. ­Balavāṇḍi
went on horseback to meet the uḷḷākḷụ at Antharanga Kaṭṭe, greeting him
when he arrived. They liked each other immediately. Finally, ­Balavāṇḍi told
the uḷḷākḷụ his wish: ‘Please come to our land. There is no king in our coun-
try’. ‘I could go there, but your country is so poor and small. There are
thousands of būtas by my side in my palace. It will be difficult to take them
to your country’. ‘Then I will make all but your favourites disappear by
throwing this stone into the bush’. ‘All right. Except for Kāntiri Jumādi and
Paṅjūrli, you can erase the figures of all the other būtas’. But then the uḷḷākḷụ
pointed out another problem: ‘Nāgabramma is not in your country. I need a
daily ritual. If Nāgabramma is not there, I won’t go’. ‘Then I will definitely
take Nāgabramma for you’, Balavāṇḍi promised. Satisfied with that answer,
the uḷḷākḷụ sat back on the palanquin.

Balavāṇḍi’s and Arasu’s visits

Balavāṇḍi and Arasu passed many places before arriving at Kattalsar, where
they found the house of Madurāya Pejattāya (an ancestor of the Pejattāya
family). The two deities changed themselves into humans and visited his
house. Madurāya welcomed the guests and offered them a bowl of milk.
Sitting on a swing (ujjālụ) in the hall, they drank it. After some time, when
Madurāya was not paying attention, they vanished. His eyes filled with tears
from the shock. After a few minutes, however, the guests appeared again in
front of him and said:

Pejattāya, you gave us a bowl of milk, which we accepted since you

clearly represent a very pious family. From now on, therefore, aside
from the shrine to Brammabermerụ, your house will be the only one
allowed to be two stories and to have a swing. Moreover, among the
Brahman families, your house will be the first.

Madurāya then covered his head to show his faith in the deities.
64 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Next, the deities visited the Kabetti guttu house. They changed them-
selves into humans again and said to Dugganna Baidya, the then head of the
house, ‘We are hungry. We need some food’. Dugganna went inside the house
to prepare lunch for the guests. When he came out with a bronze pot filled
with water, however, he could not find them. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
On the verge of tears, Dugganna considered what had gone wrong. After
a while, though, the guests reappeared in front of him and Balavāṇḍi said:

In truth, we did not come here to have lunch. I have brought the uḷḷākḷụ
here, as I know you are one of his devotees. You should prepare food for
the uḷḷākḷụ, as long as the sun and moon exist.

With great joy, Dugganna accepted these orders.

The deities then visited the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu house, whose head was a
Jain woman called Koratāi Balardi. After a formal exchange, they told her
their request: ‘You should build a shrine with a māḍa for us’. She faithfully
accepted this order. With the help of all the villagers, but laying the founda-
tion stone herself, she built a guṇḍa for Brammabermerụ, a māḍa for Arasu,
and a hall (cāvaḍi) for Balavāṇḍi. Thereafter, all the land from Aggidaimata
to Dambepāpu was governed by Balavāṇḍi.
The then head of the Bernoṭṭu5 guttu (the second guttu family) was a per-
son called Bale Semita. The deities again changed themselves into humans
and visited his house. ‘We are thirsty’, they said. Bale Semita ordered one
of his servants to bring and peel tender coconuts for them. As soon as the
guests drank the coconut juice, they disappeared. ‘They were just sitting
here. Where could they have gone? What a marvel!’ he shouted. At that very
moment, the guests manifested themselves again and said:

Bale Semita, we are not humans. We are daivas. I am Balavāṇḍi and

have brought the uḷḷākḷụ here. We have already visited several places
and have now come to your place with love and respect. For us, the first
place is the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the second is the Bernoṭṭu guttu.
We will also create other guttu houses. I will bring Nāgabramma there
too. In cooperation with these guttus, you should build a guṇḍa for
­Nāgabramma, a māḍa for Arasu, and a cāvaḍi for me. If you build all
these shrines, we will protect all the people in Perar.

The first through the 12th guttus belonged to the Baṇṭa community, and the
14th through the 16th guttus were Pūjāri.6 These were the guttus created by
Balavāṇḍi in Perar.

Balavāṇḍi’s acquisition of a brammaliṅga

Balavāṇḍi went to a place called Kaje to claim the brammaliṅga of
­ anibottu Brammērụ.7 A būta called Kandettāya8 objected, however, to
M
Balavāṇḍi taking this liṅga. They battled, but finally Balavāṇḍi succeeded
 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 65
in taking the liṅga to Perra. Kandettāya went after Balavāṇḍi and stopped
him near Perra: ‘As you are receiving rituals here, please make the people
perform rituals for me too’. Balavāṇḍi accepted this request.
In this way, a guṇḍa for Brammabermerụ, a māḍa for the uḷḷākḷụ, and
a cāvaḍi for Balavāṇḍi were founded in Perar. Balavāṇḍi furthermore gave
these orders to Koratāi Balardi, Bale Semita, and the other guttu heads:
‘Perform a daily ritual for Brammabermerụ. Offer a votive light for us every
day. And perform the nēma once a year. If you keep these promises, we dai-
vas will protect you’. With the help of the villagers, the 16 guttus organised
the nēma to begin on the night of the full moon.

As we have seen above, the pāḍdana describes how the deities came to Perar.
Aside from Balavāṇḍi, who is believed to have appeared from the land of
Perar itself, the other royal būtas are regarded as strangers from elsewhere.
The pāḍdana also shows the centrality of Balavāṇḍi in Perar, as well as the
inseparable bond between Balavāṇḍi and Bramma.
Another interesting aspect of these stories is that when Balavāṇḍi and
Arasu changed themselves into humans and visited the houses, they com-
plained of hunger and thirst and were offered food and drink by the head
of each house. The deities’ visits to the guttu houses and their reception
by these heads constituted the event that modelled the ensuing relationship
between the būtas and the villagers. In Perar today, the sequential order
in which the deities are believed to have visited each house is regarded as
grounds for the ranking of the guttu houses. In addition, a series of events
are re-enacted in the nēma, such as the deities’ visits and their reception by
the guttu heads, the people’s devotion to them and their promise to organise
the nēma, and the deities’ promise of protection.
As we will see later, the mutual exchange of offerings and blessings be-
tween the deities and villagers in the rituals has more significance than the
mere re-enactment of mythical events. Rather, this performatively affirms
and actualises the present rights and ranks of each guttu house. At the same
time, it is a chance for villagers to reconfirm the supreme power and author-
ity of the deities who give them protection and blessings. Part of the signif-
icance of the nēma is to perform this mutual transaction again and again
in front of the villagers. Next, we will see the pāḍdana which describes the
relationship between Balavāṇḍi and Pilicāmuṇḍi.

The story of Pilicāmuṇḍi, the būta of the wild tiger

Knowing that Arasu had come to Kinnimajālụ, a būta named Pilicāmuṇḍi
travelled there from a place called Balolli Nadu. He played a flute on a hill
called Kompadavụ while waiting for his chance to see Arasu and ­Balavāṇḍi.
He then lit a torch with bronze grip and began looking for the uḷḷākḷụ.
Meanwhile at the nēma, Balavāṇḍi came to know of the stranger’s visit and
66 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
said, ‘A daiva has come. I will get him to go far away, and then I will come
back’. Balavāṇḍi then changed himself into a human. When Balavāṇḍi got
to Bolinji Guḍḍɛ, he saw the daiva of Balolli Nadu. ‘Where are you from,
and where are you going?’ Balavāṇḍi asked the stranger. ‘I came here to see
my uḷḷākḷụ’, the būta replied. Balavāṇḍi responded, ‘He is not your uḷḷākḷụ,
but mine!’ The two quarrelled, and, finally, Balavāṇḍi said, ‘Never get in my
way! If I kick you, you will be seriously injured’. Pilicāmuṇḍi retorted, ‘Well,
if I kick you, you will be split into two!’ ‘Let us see how you go’, Balavāṇḍi
said, drawing three lines on the ground with his sword. ‘If you cross these
lines, you will receive the curse of the Manjunatha god in the Kadri Temple’.
Balavāṇḍi then went back to the nēma.
After some time, Pilicāmuṇḍi managed to cover the three lines in Bolinji
Guḍḍɛ with leaves and then went directly to Kinnimajālụ, hiding himself in
a field in front of the shrine. Bale Semita, the head of the second guttu house,
happened to come to that field shortly thereafter to harvest bananas for Ba-
lavāṇḍi. Pilicāmuṇḍi kicked him, killing him instantly. After hearing of this
incident, Balavāṇḍi called on Pilicāmuṇḍi: ‘If you are so powerful, then bring
him back to life. After that, make my sword in Balolli Nadu fall into my
courtyard!’ ‘If I do that, what will you do for me?’ Pilicāmuṇḍi asked. ‘Now,
the nēma is held for two nights; one is for me and the other is for Arasu.
We will add a third night for you. In addition, we will give you the right
to respond to people’s consultations’. Accepting this challenge, Pilicāmuṇḍi
made quick work of bringing Bale Semita back to life and making the sword
fall into the courtyard. Thereafter, Balavāṇḍi, Arasu, and Pilicāmuṇḍi were
known as the ‘three uḷḷākḷụ on one couch’ (mūve rullākulu oṅji maṅcāvuḍu
ullerụ). A new shrine to Pilicāmuṇḍi was also built on the hilltop.

This pāḍdana shows how Pilicāmuṇḍi came to be enshrined in the būta shrine
in Perar. As already seen, among the būtas enshrined there, the status of
Pilicāmuṇḍi is rather unique. Unlike Balavāṇḍi who appeared in Perar itself, or
Arasu and Bramma who were invited there, Pilicāmuṇḍi arrived uninvited in
Perar and then had trouble with Balavāṇḍi. Accepting Balavāṇḍi’s challenge,
the būta showed his power and earned the right to be worshipped in this land.
Among the promises that Balavāṇḍi made Pilicāmuṇḍi in the pāḍdana, ‘the
right to respond to people’s consultations’ is especially significant. In the nēma,
the ritual for Arasu is held on the first night and that for Balavāṇḍi is held the
following day from midnight to dawn; the longest ritual, from dawn to the
afternoon on the final day, is for Pilicāmuṇḍi. On the same day, there is a ritual
called vākụ piripuni, in which devotees consult Balavāṇḍi and Pilicāmuṇḍi
about various problems and receive their judgement. ‘The right to respond to
people’s consultations’ accounts for the role of Pilicāmuṇḍi in this ritual.
This section has outlined the pāḍdana focusing on the royal būtas in Perar.
We now turn to the pāḍdana regarding the relationship between the guttus
and the deities, focusing on the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the Alakɛ guttu.
 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 67
The pāḍdana on the deities and guttu families
The Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the deities
About a thousand years ago, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, like the other guttus in
South Kanara, belonged to the Jain community. A woman called Koratāi
Balardi was the last descendant of this Jain family. When Balavāṇḍi and
Arasu changed themselves into humans and visited her house, she was in
charge of the whole family. She asked her servant to bring them a glass of
milk, and the guests drank it. Then she went into the house to bring them
betel nuts. When she came outside again, the guests had disappeared. She
called to them, but heard only a strange voice from the other end of the house:
‘Oh!’ She approached and called again, but the same voice replied this time
from the kambuḷa field: ‘Oh!’ She was surprised and began to wonder who the
guests had been. Although she could have asked their identity when they came
to the house, this would have been impolite. If guests did not volunteer their
identities, the host could only ask them after providing them food and drink.
That night, the guests appeared in her dream and said, ‘We are d ­ aivas.
We need a shrine in this village. We have already chosen the place’. B
­ alavāṇḍi
added, ‘We have appeared at Kinnimajālụ. With the help of the sixteen
households we have visited, together with the whole village, you should build
us a shrine and worship us’. Following these orders, Koratāi Balardi built
the village būta shrine and organised the nēma. Since she had no ­children,
she received a brother and sister from a Baṇṭa family in ­Gurupura, who
­succeeded her in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

Alakɛ guttu and the origin of the mukkāldi

About 800 years ago, there was a house called Kukkunja, the sub-guttu (ul-
aguttu) of the Alakɛ guttu family. All the guttu houses were Jain, but then
a Baṇṭa brother and sister from a clan called Kundarannāya came to live in
Kukkunja. One day, the sister visited the main Alakɛ guttu house. When
the guttu people asked her identity, she told them her clan, even though her
brother had told her not to tell anybody this secret. When she revealed their
clan’s name, the brother, who had been working outside, was suddenly pos-
sessed by Balavāṇḍi. The deity had been searching for someone belonging to
the Kundarannāya clan to serve her as mukkāldi, since this would adhere to
the custom of matriliny called aḷiyakaṭṭụ [aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ]. The Jain guttu
family eventually bequeathed to the brother and sister their land and title.
After this, the guttu was passed on to the sister’s children, and their family
assumed the title of Alakɛ guttu and the status of mukkāldi.

These oral epics show the relationship between the būtas and the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu and Alakɛ guttu families. It is said that the guttus who gov-
erned the land when the people started their relations with the deities were
68 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Jains. Today, however, 12 of the 16 guttu families in Perar are Baṇṭa. Each
of these 12 families is said to have inherited its title and status from a
Jain family who had relinquished them and the land. In the case of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, it is said that Balavāṇḍi selected the estate owned by
a Jain family as ‘the first guttu’. After that, the Baṇṭa brother and sister
adopted by Koratāi Balardi succeeded to this estate as well as the guttu
title. In the case of the Alakɛ guttu, it is said that Balavāṇḍi first selected
the clan called Kundarannāya to undertake the role of the mukkāldi.
A brother and sister of this clan then inherited the title of guttu along with
the estate from the Jain family.
It is noteworthy that in both cases the ancestors who are said to have
­succeeded to the title of guttu were a ‘brother and sister’. As we will see in
Part Two in more detail, in the matrilineal Baṇṭa community, the tie
­between brothers and sisters is very important. Brothers assume the role of
head of the family as well as ritual roles such as gaḍipatinārụ and mukkāldi.
This role and status are then inherited by his sister’s son. Meanwhile, the
estate and deities worshipped by the family (kuṭumada būta) are passed on
from the sister to her children. To this day, the Baṇṭa community still main-
tains this system of matrilineal inheritance. It is a system based on the ties
­between brothers and sisters, as well as on būta worship, which enables the
maintenance of the kuṭuma as a whole.
As we have seen in this chapter, pāḍdanas are stories about the original
relationships between humans and deities, especially about the relation-
ships between the guttu families and the royal būtas. Referred to as ‘matters
of history’ by villagers, these serve to warrant each family’s status and the
­relations among families in the village. Pāḍdanas are not holy scriptures,
but oral epics that are spread and passed down through ritual performance.
Since there is always a possibility for a pāḍdana to be slightly changed in a
performance, its contents regarding the ranks and roles of the families often
become points of controversy among villagers.
It is also interesting that most of the pāḍdanas examined in this ­chapter
contain episodes that show the mystic power of the būtas, with deities van-
ishing (māya āpuni) or making someone disappear (māya maḷpuni). This
suggests that in the human–būta relationship, the coming of būtas is always
followed by their disappearance; people perceive that the vanishing of a
­deity who has appeared as an actual being demonstrates that it fundamen-
tally belongs not to the realm of jōga, but to the realm of māya.
The relationship between the deities and people described in the ­pāḍdana
is not only sung as oral epics. In the nēma in Perar, it is also partially
­performed by the mukkāldi, the dancer-mediums, and the heads of the
­g uttus. The people participating in the nēma thus experience the mutual
transactional relationship with the būtas through ritual performance, as we
will see in the next chapter.
 Pāḍdana: the oral epics of deities 69
Notes
1 The oral epics recorded in this chapter are based on the stories narrated by
Gangādara Rai (interviewed on 3 July 2008), Bālākrishna Shetty (interviewed
on 2 July 2008), and Narasouna Pejattāya (interviewed on 21 July 2008). As dis-
cussed in Chapter 8, part of the pāḍdana regarding the village būta shrine in
Perar was recorded and edited into a Kannaḍa pamphlet by folklorists. I have
also referred to this pamphlet.
2 Brammabermerụ is another name for Bramma. This deity is also called
Nāgabramma.
3 A vow made to perform certain rituals or to offer gifts to deities is called parakɛ
(Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 1934). In matrilineal communities such as those of the
Baṇṭa, a maternal uncle often makes a vow praying for the birth of a child for his
sister.
4 Varaha was the standard 3.4-gram gold coin in the Vijayanagara period.
5 Bernoṭṭu guttu is another name for the Brāṇabeṭṭu guttu. Similarly, the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu is also referred to as the Muṅḍoṭṭu guttu.
6 Today the 13th guttu is Kuḍubi.
7 There is a shrine to Bramma in Kaje, and the deity is called Manibottu
Brammērụ.
8 Kandettāya is one of the five būtas one rank below the three royal būtas.
5 Dances, oracles, and blessings
in the ritual

The nēma starts on the night of the full moon in the month of māyi and is
held for three days and three nights. In the nēma, the people and the būtas,
incarnated in dancer-mediums, interact in several rituals. The ritual process
provides us many clues regarding how to consider the question presented in
Chapter 1, that is, how people create their lives and umwelt through encoun-
ters with nonhuman others. In this chapter, I will describe the process of
the nēma in detail, in order to provide a basis for the theoretical analysis in
the next chapter.1 I will focus on the performances of the Pambada dancer-­
mediums, of the mukkāldi, and of the guttu heads in the rituals for Balavāṇḍi,
Arasu, and Pilicāmuṇḍi. The nēma consists primarily of five main rituals:
from the previous night to the next morning, there is a ritual called pūvɛ, in
which a flag is hoisted at the village būta shrine; from the first night to the next
morning, there are rituals for Arasu and Balavāṇḍi (puṇṇamɛ); on the second
night, there are rituals for Jumādi and Baṇṭa; from dawn to the afternoon on
the third day, there is a ritual for Pilicāmuṇḍi and vākụ piripuni; and on the
final night, there is a ritual involving taking down the flag (koḍi jāpuni).

The day before the nēma

One day prior to the nēma, ritual workers build a wooden gate on the north
side of the village būta shrine. This is the starting point for the rituals. Every-
one and everything concerned with the nēma is supposed to enter the shrine
precincts through this gate. In the evening of that day, worshippers hold a
ritual called padiari pattuni. In this ritual, the mukkāldi gives 5 sērụ of rice
to Jayānanda Pambada, the dancer-medium of Pilicāmuṇḍi, and grants him
permission to perform in the nēma.2
Now, it is 10 pm in the village. The beginning of the nēma is just a few hours
away. Amid the shadows of the night, every building in the precinct sparkles
with decorative illuminations. Several children, set to attend a ritual called
kaṅciụl bali later tonight, sit in the northern corridor with their mothers, who
straighten the children’s clothes and put jasmine flowers in the girls’ hair.
Some people chat in the outer garden as everyone waits for the ritual to begin.
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 71
Shortly after 1 am, a group of people carry the palanquin down a foot-
path between the paddy fields. Fireworks explode into the sky, and drums
and horns start to reverberate throughout the night air. Torches of fire and
flashes of smoke pots light up the procession. Illuminated are the musicians
playing the drums and horns, the guttu heads in their white clothes, and the
many ritual workers carrying torches, big red and white umbrellas (sattigɛ),
a red banner (naḍu cōrṇa), a silver umbrella (boḷgoḍɛ), a silver mask (muga)
of Pilicāmuṇḍi, a wooden couch (katterimanɛ), and the palanquin with its
various sacred objects. And when they all reach Baṇṭakaṁba, the horns
blare to a crescendo.
The mukkāldi possessed by Balavāṇḍi is suddenly shaking all over. His
eyes go wide, his limbs stiffen. He holds a silver sword (kaḍsalɛ) and bell
(māḍa) in each hand. Strings of jasmine flowers hang over his chest, nearly
reaching his long white loincloth with its silver belt. A Maḍḍyelɛ worker
holding the long pole of the silver umbrella now also finds his skinny body
trembling all over uncontrollably. The būtas are here. Shivering of the body
is the most conspicuous sign of possession by a deity.
After a while, the party then starts out from Baṇṭakaṁba to the vil-
lage būta shrine. A white cow (basava), a symbol of auspiciousness, is
led through the ritual gate by two of the men. Ordinary villagers gather
around the ritual gate and gaze at this procession. Women hide behind
the crowd for fear of being seen by the mukkāldi possessed by Balavāṇḍi
(Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi). Balavāṇḍi, who is believed to be androgynous, is
said to become jealous of women when she sees them.3 Though she like-
wise becomes somewhat jealous of men when she sees them, it is especially
prohibited for women especially to come within view of Balavāṇḍi, since
the deity will become particularly enraged if she sees them. The procession
passes through the ritual gate, marches around the shrine clockwise, and
enters the precincts.
At 3 am, a white flag is raised on a flagpole in front of the Bramma
guṇḍa. The asrāṇṇa offers a votive light at the Bramma guṇḍa, māḍa, and
koḍiyaḍi (altar). The ritual called tuḍara bali then begins. Accompanied by
the sounds of instruments, the mukkāldi, the guttu heads, and the carriers
of the sacred objects walk around the koḍiyaḍi, māḍa, and Bramma guṇḍa
nine times. After this ritual, the dressed-up children come before the altar
while their fathers and brothers carry votive lights. Following their male
kin with their offerings to the būtas, the children walk around the altar and
māḍa holding areca flowers. This ritual is called kaṅciụl bali and is held for
the children’s health and for the resolution of family problems. At 5 am, after
a dialogue (nuḍikaṭṭụ) between the gaḍipatinārụ and ­Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi,
the gaḍipatinārụ hands three coconuts to the m ­ ukkāldi, who then pours the
coconuts’ water on the ground.4 With this performance, the rituals stretch-
ing from the previous night to the dawn of the first day of the nēma come
to a close.
72 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
The rituals to Arasu and Balavāṇḍi
The ritual to Arasu (the first half): gaggara decci
By 8 pm on the first day of the nēma, the corridor of the village būta shrine is
already filled with crowds of devotees. Most of them first visit the Bramma
guṇḍa and pray in front of it. They throw money into an offertory box and
receive prasāda from the Maḍḍyelɛ worker who guards the altar, which is sur-
rounded by a thick curtain of white and orange flowers. Shining brilliantly
on the altar covered with jasmine flowers are sacred objects such as the silver
masks of Arasu and Pilicāmuṇḍi, Balavāṇḍi’s sword, and silver statues of an
elephant, a tiger, and Balavāṇḍi on a horse. On the north and south sides of
the altar, there are two pedestals (carva) on which offerings are set.
Near the main entrance of the precinct, there is a wooden horse (kudurɛ)
and a big halo-like adornment called aṇi for Balavāṇḍi. A Pambada man sits
cross-legged on the ground beside these objects making up his face under
the fire of an oilcan. This man is Jayānanda Pambada, the dancer-medium
of Arasu. A red cloth bound across his forehead holds his hair back as he
carefully makes up his face to become the deity. He paints his face yellow
and outlines the contour of his face from forehead to cheekbones to jaw with
a lace-like design called arụdala. He shades his eyes black. His eyebrows
become arches from the bridge of his nose. His face thus made up, he holds
up with both hands golden ornaments decorated with jasmine flowers to the
fire of the oilcan for a moment, and then hangs these on his ears. He next
puts on a red costume embroidered on the back with images of the sun and
moon. He slips silver bangles onto his arms and wrists and places on his
head a golden crown decorated with red kēpla [Ixora coccinea] flowers.
Meanwhile, under the canopy of the altar, the mukkāldi of Balavāṇḍi also
prepares for the ritual. He wraps his hair in white cloth, prays to the altar,
and picks up the bell. Horns suddenly reverberate throughout the precinct,
and his body starts shaking. Receiving a burning torch from a Maḍḍyelɛ
worker, the mukkāldi, who is now possessed by Balavāṇḍi, whirls the light
in front of the altar. He starts walking around the altar and māḍa, and the
guttu heads and other ritual workers follow him.
At 9 pm, the mukkāldi and Jayānanda face each other in front of the al-
tar. Jayānanda holds gaggara (heavy flat bells) in both hands, and then his
body starts trembling. Supported by his fellow Pambada, he puts the gag-
gara on his ankles and wraps a tiri (a skirt made of torn coconut leaves)
around his waist. He steps forward and bows to the altar. The gaḍipatinārụ
next places garlands of flowers around Jayānanda’s neck, and the ritual
workers light a fire on the carva. When the fire is lit, Jayānanda starts trem-
bling all over and wriggling his upper body. Jayānanda possessed by Arasu
(Jayānanda-Arasu) starts performing a dance called gaggara dīpuni, and
then runs through the precinct with two torch-wielding Maḍḍyelɛ workers
until he reaches the head of the Pejattāya, who sits in his seat for honoured
guests. ­Jayānanda-Arasu steps lightly to the sounds of the horns, and he
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 73
starts talking to the Pejattāya head through gestures with his body and
hands. He draws close to the ­Pejattāya head’s face to look up at him, holds
both his arms up in the air, and leans forward to catch his answers. All
of these gestures are performed fluently as a part of the dance and steps.
­Jayānanda-Arasu next darts back to the altar and dances in front of the
guttu heads according to their ranks. Through his facial expressions and
gestures, he communicates with the guttu heads who stand up in respect
and watch his every movement seriously.
Although these interactions between the devotees and the deity incarnated
in the medium are relatively common in manner and process, the relation-
ship between the gaḍipatinārụ and the deity is special. During the nēma, the
gaḍipatinārụ occupies the position closest to every deity manifesting itself in
the ritual. It is to the gaḍipatinārụ that the deity incarnated in the medium
conveys her various requests and indications, and often this involves her
communicating her dissatisfaction and anger over people’s faults during the
ritual. The gaḍipatinārụ follows the deity to respond to her every movement,
treats her hospitably, and appeases her anger. Through their mutual interac-
tions in the ritual, the gaḍipatinārụ and the deity incarnated in the medium
create and embody the ideal relationship between būtas and devotees.
After dancing in front of the guttu heads, Jayānanda-Arasu dances facing
the Pūjāri priests, who have been waiting near the wooden horse. He then
runs through the precinct and dances lightly in front of the altar. As he steps
to the sounds of the horns and spins pivoting on one foot, the tiri around
his waist flares out from him and the gaggara around his ankles resound.
Then he runs off again, weaving his way through the precinct. After again
communicating to the guttu heads through gestures, he raises his hands
beside his head as if to say good-bye, and then steps agilely around the pre-
cinct. After whirling many times, Jayānanda-Arasu seems about to fall on
his back in front of the carva, but one of his brothers quickly catches hold of
him. At that moment, all the music stops; only the lingering tone of a horn
remains. Jayānanda remains held in his brother’s arms for some time, before
waking up and walking to a corner of the precinct. Only the sounds of his
gaggara resonate now.

The ritual to Arasu (the second half): nēma decci

At 10 pm, soon after the gaggara dīpuni finishes, Jayānanda leans on a
three-legged stool and starts singing the pāḍdana. Jayānanda’s brother, who
stands behind him, plays a drum hanging from his shoulder, and they each
take turns singing phrases of the pāḍdana. Meanwhile, other Pambadas
decorate the aṇi for Balavāṇḍi, while in front of the carva, under the fire of
torches, three workers braid coconut fronds to make pieces called maḍalụ
muḍepuni, which symbolise farmland greenery. When the pāḍdana ends,
people wander around the precinct in twos and threes, stopping occasion-
ally at a canteen set in the field outside the shrine to have some snacks.
74 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
At 11 pm, the mukkāldi possessed by Balavāṇḍi walks around the precinct
along with the guttu heads and ritual workers, and has a dialogue with the
gaḍipatinārụ. Then Jayānanda, who stands in front of the mukkāldi, dons
the costume of Arasu. Compared to the one for the previous ritual, this cos-
tume is heavily equipped. He drapes a purple cloth over his shoulders and
his red upper garment, then adds a layer of red and green textile and blue
cloth, and then drapes a red and gold textile on top of all of these. He next
lifts a huge halo-like aṇi5 onto his back and ties it around his waist tightly.
He also secures a semi-circular table called jakkelaṇi around his waist. To
complete the costume, a long board (kadar mudi), on which the mask of
Arasu is tied, is placed in the centre of the aṇi.
At 12 o’clock midnight, Jayānanda prays to the altar and receives a silver
sword. To the sounds of horns, the guttu heads throw petals and grains of
rice over him—at that moment, Jayānanda starts trembling all over. This is
the start of the ritual called nēma decci. Jayānanda, carrying the big aṇi and
holding the silver sword in his right hand and a bell in his left hand, turns
slowly in front of the altar. As it is very difficult to turn by himself with such
heavy and bulky adornments, several Pambadas hold up the back of the aṇi
and the end of the jakkelaṇi to help him. Jayānanda-Arasu walks around
the altar, goes to the head of the Pejattāya, turns in front of him, and comes
back to the altar. With his sword raised overhead, Jayānanda-Arasu gives
an oracle to the guttu heads. Each guttu head puts his palms together and
listens attentively to the deity’s words.
Jayānanda-Arasu then hands his sword and bell to one of the Maḍḍyelɛ
workers, receives a green coconut, and gives it to the gaḍipatinārụ with a
blessing. He receives another coconut decorated with areca and kēpla flow-
ers, picks off some of the petals and touches them to his forehead lightly,
and throws these towards the guttu heads. The transfer of the coconut and
petals shows the deity’s blessings for the guttu heads and other devotees.
After rinsing his hands with water, Jayānanda-Arasu takes up his sword and
bell again. Shaking the bell, he trembles all over furiously, and when a horn
reverberates, he suddenly stops moving as though he has breathed his last.

The ritual for Balavāṇḍi (the first half): gaggara dīpuni

A little after 1 am, a youth with a dark red cloth on his shoulders and a
red and green loincloth starts roaming the precinct. His tanned, angular
face is distorted and black hair falls in waves onto his shoulders. A hush
falls over the hundreds in the precinct, with only his roar of ‘Whoa-ee!’
­periodically breaking the silence. The ritual called enne detonuni, in which
Balavāṇḍi ­incarnated in Yatish Pambada receives sacred oil, has begun.
Yatish-­Balavāṇḍi walks back and forth, dances waving a bronze plate in his
hand, and runs to a Maḍḍyelɛ worker waiting near the carva. As soon as the
Maḍḍyelɛ splashes sacred oil from a mud pot onto him, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi
runs out of the precinct on the wings of the wind.
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 75
After some time, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi, who has meanwhile finished bathing
at a well near the treasure house, runs back into the precinct with awful
roar. Several Pambada workers immediately run to him, put the strap of a
drum onto his shoulder, and give him a drumstick. When Jayānanda, who
has by that time undressed himself and removed his make-up, starts singing
the pāḍdana, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi, his body stiffening, starts playing the drum.
After a few minutes, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi suddenly starts off running towards
the east, rushing into the crowd in the corridor. He then faints into the arms
of the other Pambadas.
Around 2:30 am, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi, wearing the gaggara and a gorgeous
colourful skirt over red trousers, dances in front of the guttu heads. Two
hours later, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi, who wears an aṇi resembling the huge wings
of a butterfly, starts singing the pāḍdana. He then dances around again in
front of the guttu heads, who stand up to show their respect for the deity.
After dancing, he prays to the altar. The Maḍḍyelɛ splashes water onto him
from a bronze pot. He then bows to the altar and returns to the corner of the
precinct, the sounds of the gaggara reverberating as he goes.

The ritual for Balavāṇḍi (the second half): the fight with Bramma
A short while after 5 am, on a rush mat in a corner of the precinct, Yatish
prepares to wear Balavāṇḍi’s aṇi. His face has changed into that of an in-
trepid man with a thick black moustache. He puts several thick pieces of
cloth over his shoulders, layered on top of his red costume, carries the huge
aṇi that is double his height, and tightens its backboard against his upper
body. Since the aṇi is worn with its base above his head, its top reaches about
4 metres from the ground. In contrast, the silver jakkelaṇi worn around his
waist is small, with a radius of about 40 centimetres.
With the aṇi in place, Yatish faces Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi in front of the
wooden horse. Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi walks over to Yatish, who is now lean-
ing on a stool, and hands over to him via a Maḍḍyelɛ worker a silver sword,
the tail of a yak, and a silver stick (birāvụ) decorated with jasmine flowers.
When the guttu heads behind Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi lean forward and throw
petals and grains of rice onto Yatish, he immediately begins trembling all
over. At this moment, the power of Balavāṇḍi is believed to have transferred
from the mukkāldi to Yatish.6
Getting up from his stool, Yatish shakes the huge aṇi and turns, creating a
rush of wind. He steps and dances around the precinct lightly to the sounds
of the drums and horns, the aṇi over his head swaying. Then he walks
around the altar and māḍa with the guttu heads and other ritual workers.
Several Pambadas walk along with him to support the backboard of the
aṇi. After that, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi approaches the wooden horse covered
with flowers, while dancing with a sword raised overhead. Assisted by other
­Pambadas, he clambers onto the back of this horse with the huge aṇi still on
his back. A full blast of drums and horns blares, and the Pūjāri workers pull
76 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
with all their strength the pulley rope of the carriage of the wooden horse.
The procession centring around Yatish-Balavāṇḍi on horseback moves to-
wards the altar. Several Pambadas, balancing precariously on edge of the
carriage, hold the back of the aṇi to prevent it from falling.
After marching around the precinct, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi stops in front of
the Bramma guṇḍa and starts performing the dance of fighting on horse-
back. He expresses his anger by brandishing the tale of a yak and shaking
his upper body aggressively. In these movements, the garlands of jasmine
flowers on the aṇi are torn and scattered all around. Trembling all over,
Yatish-Balavāṇḍi repeats the action of tearing his moustache away in a glow
of anger. This dance demonstrates the fight between Nādu and Bramma in
the pāḍdana.
After this dance, Yatish-Balavāṇḍi dismounts from the wooden horse and
comes to the head of the Pejattāya. The day breaks and the precinct begins
to fill with growing light. Yatish-Balavāṇḍi starts talking to the guttu heads
with a voice full of life and rich intonations. He reminds them of the author-
ity of the būtas, who have protected the village and its people, and of the
importance of the customs and tradition (kaṭṭụ kaṭṭalɛ) that form the basis
of the ritual. He also accuses the people of ritual failure and orders them
to correct the errors of their ways. The guttu heads nod along with each
word of Yatish-Balavāṇḍi and attempt to pacify his rage by responding with
gestures.
At last, the ritual for Kandettāya, who is one of the followers of the royal
būtas, is held. Yatish dances around for a few minutes holding a coconut
with a fire lit on top of it. With this short performance, the ritual for Bala-
vāṇḍi has finally come to an end.

The ritual for Pilicāmuṇḍi and vākụ piripuni

Before the dawn of the last day of the nēma, several Pambadas begin pre-
paring for the ritual, sitting on a rush mat in a dim corner of the precinct.
Jayānanda, who performed the dance of Arasu in the previous ritual, is
among them. He is making up his face carefully in order to become the
dancer-medium of Pilicāmuṇḍi in the last and longest ritual of the nēma.
At around the same time, to the sounds of drums and horns, the asrāṇṇa,
musicians, and other ritual workers start climbing the long stairs on the hill
behind the village būta shrine towards the Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine at the summit.
When they arrive at the shrine, the asrāṇṇa conducts a ritual to Pilicāmuṇḍi.
When this ritual is completed, they return to the foot of the hill and next
perform a ritual to a wooden tiger, the vehicle of Pilicāmuṇḍi.
A short while after 7 am, when Pilicāmuṇḍi incarnated in Jayānanda
(Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi) has finished performing the gaggara dīpuni and
singing the pāḍdana, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi walks with the guttu heads and
other ritual workers around the precinct, halting when they reach the altar.
Jayānanda, who wears an aṇi on his back, sits in front of the altar, facing
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 77
Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi, who raises a sword over his head. At that moment, a
Maḍḍyelɛ worker ties onto the centre of Jayānanda’s aṇi, so that it is sur-
rounded by palm leaves, the mask of Pilicāmuṇḍi, its silver tongue thrust
out. This ritual is called muga pattuni or muga dīpuni, and it is believed to be
a vital moment: the moment when the būta śakti fills the precinct. The drums
and horns resound throughout the precinct and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi
starts dancing with burning torches in his hands. While raising and lower-
ing the torches rapidly, he dances and flaps his skirt of palm leaves. He then
receives a sword, yak’s tail, bell, and petals from the Maḍḍyelɛ. He puts the
petals on his forehead lightly, strews them in front of him, and starts danc-
ing again with the sword in his hand.
A little before 8 am, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi, Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi, the
guttu heads, and the ritual workers carrying the palanquin march around
the altar and exit through the main gate of the precinct. They walk to the
north side of the shrine and pass through the ritual gate one by one. As
Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi pass through the gate, a
ritual worker pours water from a mud pot onto their feet. They depart from
the outer garden and march to Baṇṭakaṁba.

The ritual at Baṇṭakaṁba

By 8 am, the outer garden and precinct of Baṇṭakaṁba are filled with crowds.
It is getting hotter, the strong sunshine reflecting off the ground. Under a
big tree in the precinct, Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi leans on a stool with the
aṇi, and the guttu heads stand straight beside him. In front of the small
shrine, where it is believed that Nādu reappeared on the earth, Mukkāldi-­
Balavāṇḍi’s possession reaches its climax. He walks up and down trembling
all over, suddenly running in a flash to the small shrine, then raising the
sword with a roar and striking it against his stomach.7
After Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi’s dance and the dialogue with the guttu
heads, the ritual enters a new stage: from possession and dances to oracles,
blessings (nuḍi korpuni), and the deities’ judgements. Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi,
Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi, and the guttu heads stand under a big tree. In front
of them, the devotees who desire the deities’ blessings queue up in a long
line.8 Those whose prayers to the deities have been answered also come to
give the deity offerings such as jasmine flowers and a silver cradle as tokens
of their gratitude. Both Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi
give blessings to each devotee. The devotee then receives a smear of sandal-
wood paste on a betel leaf as prasāda from a Maḍḍyelɛ worker.
A short while after 10 am, the ritual called vākụ piripuni starts in
Baṇṭakaṁba.9 The people who need the deities’ judgement now form
a long line and face the deities one by one. The devotee first explains his
problem, and then, raising the sword above his head, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi
states his view on the issue. He intones in a clear voice, often turning to the
­gaḍipatinārụ to get his agreement. After Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi’s statement,
78 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi also states his view on the issue. Though their state-
ments often go in different directions, in most cases they eventually reach
similar conclusions. After they receive these words from the deities, devo-
tees receive prasāda and withdraw into background.

The sacrifice and blessing

A short while after 11 am, the long ritual of vākụ piripuni finally con-
cludes. At this time, led by the musicians, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi,
­Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi, the guttu heads, and other ritual workers carrying
sacred objects begin marching from Baṇṭakaṁba to the village būta shrine.
The roadside is filled with crowds hoping to glimpse the deities. Before the
procession starts, about a dozen Pūjāri youths wearing orange loincloths
race from Baṇṭakaṁba to the shrine. When they reach the shrine, they start
pulling the wooden horse’s dragrope. Accompanied by the guttu heads and
ritual workers, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi then enter
the precinct.
At around 1 pm, Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi leaves through the east gate of
the shrine and enters the outer garden. When he sits down under the simple
eaves there, ritual workers spread out a straw mat in front of him and place
on it various offerings such as coconuts, palm wine, and bananas. This is
a ritual called the bārne, in which food and drink are offered to the deity.10
Unlike for Arasu and Balavāṇḍi, who are believed to be vegetarians, fowls
are offered for Pilicāmuṇḍi. For that reason, the bārne for Pilicāmuṇḍi is
held not inside the precinct but in the outer garden. A short while before 3
pm, the bārne finishes and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi comes back into the pre-
cinct. He raises a sword in his right hand, dances around the altar and māḍa,
turning around in front of the Bramma guṇḍa, and then falls onto his back.
The guttu heads surround Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi, now sitting with his legs
stretched out and leaning against the aṇi on his back. ­Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi
looks up at the guttu heads, holds the sword towards each of them, and gives
them blessings. After a short while, Jayānanda puts on the slim mask of
Paṅjurli (the deity of a wild boar) and then dances in front of the altar. With
this dance, the ritual to Pilicāmuṇḍi, which started at dawn, finally draws
to a close.

Ritual transactions between deities and people

As we have examined thus far, the intimate yet tense relationship between
people and deities is condensed in the process of the nēma in Perar. In the
nēma, the guttu heads interact with the būtas in various ways. The most
significant form of their interaction is the mutual gifting between the guttu
heads and the būtas. The guttus offer the deities a part of their farm prod-
ucts, which embody the fertile śakti, along with human labour and services.
The deities receive and consume these offerings and, in return, give them
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 79
blessings to ensure their future prosperity. The būtas also request that the
nēma be continued, and the guttu heads give them their word. Through
this interaction, the agreement between the deities and the villagers, which
is said to be based on the ancient pledge between Balavāṇḍi and Koratāi
Balardi, is renewed.
This mutual gifting relationship between the villagers and būtas can be
described as the transactional network (Appadurai & Breckenridge 1976,
p. 195) of humans and deities. Through the mutual gifting in the ritual, dei-
ties and devotees are placed in a transactional network in which they make
each other partners. The deity becomes the ‘special person’ who is the recip-
ient as well as the sender of the gift, the core of the distribution of resources.
Regarding the transactional network and the deity’s personhood, a more
detailed examination follows in the next chapter.
Through the interaction between the būtas and the guttu heads, the hier-
archy of the guttu houses is publicly reconfirmed and renewed. The deity,
incarnated in a dancer-medium, dances in front of each guttu head and calls
the name of each house and property in order. The deity also gives bless-
ings to the guttu heads according to their ranks. As I have discussed, the
ranks of the main houses in Perar are based on the ritual hierarchy in būta
­worship. As such, the nēma gives the villagers an opportunity to manifest
and performatively approve the ranks of these guttus.
As seen above, what is essential in the village būta ritual is the mutual
interaction between the deities and the guttu heads and other villagers.
The success of the nēma is thus judged on the following criteria: the de-
ities smoothly possess the mediums and receive offerings from the guttu
heads; both the deities and guttu heads renew the ancient pledge; and all
the rituals are concluded with the deities’ blessings. Through a process that
demonstrates the intimate relationship between the būtas and the villagers,
as sung in the pāḍdana, the roles and statuses of the present guttu heads are
approved, and the harmony of the entire village is secured.
In practice, however, the ritual always involves instability and crisis. Būta
worship in general is based on the customary law called kaṭṭụ. Kaṭṭụ ­indicates
conventional law as a whole, and it determines every ritual p ­ ractice in d
­ etail.
The details of the kaṭṭụ regarding būta worship are said to be known to only
a few people such as the gaḍipatinārụ and mukkāldi. Moreover, the kaṭṭụ
here involves not only concrete rules regarding ritual practices, but also
people’s proper attitudes and devotion concerning būta worship.
Though each ritual is supposed to be conducted in accordance with the
kaṭṭụ, in reality, some changes or unanticipated failures often occur during
the ritual. Some of these changes and failures are called out by the deity
incarnated in a medium as mistakes that cannot be disregarded. The de-
ity censures the guttu heads harshly and orders them to conduct the ritual
properly, based on the kaṭṭụ. In the būta ritual in Perar, it is mainly the
role of Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi to indict the villagers for their ritual mistakes.
When the gaḍipatinārụ and other ritual workers break the customary law
80 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
or neglect their duties, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi warns that he will not merely
no longer protect them, but will actively cause them misfortune (būtoda
­upadro). For example, in a ritual held in the second guttu’s house, Mukkāldi-­
Balavāṇḍi expressed fierce anger, and accused the devotees of ritual m
­ istakes
and in-fighting:

Until yesterday, I raised my sword and blessed Perra [the old name of
Perar]. But you have made me break the ancient promise [to protect the
village and its people]. Never think that I am a deity who breaks the
kaṭṭụ … I am the governing deity. If you break this promise, I will show
you!
(23 August 2009)

In oracles, the deity often uses euphemistic expressions, and thus his/her
intentions are interpreted in myriad ways. For example, although in this
oracle, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi did not state clearly what he thought was the
problem, the villagers conjectured that the deity was expressing his anger
about the disputes over the management of the village būta shrine. As shown
in this oracle, the relationships between people and būtas are not always one
of intimate, mutual appreciation and blessings; often it is a risky interaction,
invoking fear and anxiety. While the roles and statuses of the guttus are
based on customary law, they are not permanently guaranteed, but rather
depend on the judgements of the deities. Thus, people always anticipate the
būtas’ anger and have developed skills for soothing it so that they might
re-establish the proper relationship.
As I have mentioned before, the rights and duties given to the people con-
cerning the būta ritual are called adikāra. Based on the above investigation,
we find that the devotees desire and execute the adikāra based on the ap-
proval of the deities; at the same time, the deities often give the adikāra to
devotees compulsorily or deprive them of the adikāra. Meanwhile, through
the villagers’ entreaties in the nēma that the būtas bless and protect them
in exchange for their devotion, the būtas’ supreme authority over them is
confirmed and approved in public. This means that the villagers verify and
reinforce the būta’s adikāra towards them.
In the būta ritual, the guttu heads and other villagers are granted rights
and statuses in exchange for their ritual services. However, their rights and
statuses are kept unstable, since the būtas’ supreme authority is regarded as
the ultimate source of all entitlement. In this sense, būta worship cannot be
interpreted merely as a way to justify and stabilise the prestige of the ruling
class in village society (e.g. Gowda 2005). The būta ritual certainly provides
particular rights and interests to the devotees, but at the same time, it always
reminds them that these rights and interests are never permanent but are
tentatively granted to them only through their negotiation with the būtas.
This reminder seems to be an important reason why people continue
to strive to conduct the būta ritual, to give offerings to the būtas, and to
 Dances, oracles, and blessings 81
interact with the deities to reconfirm and actualise their own adikāra per-
formatively. As we will see in Chapters 12 and 13, this is a vital point to keep
in mind when we analyse the complex situation in which people who have
widely varying interests in their daily lives nonetheless share the position of
būta devotee and temporarily create a ritual community through participa-
tion in the būta ritual.

Notes
1 The description of the nēma in this chapter is based primarily on participant
observation of the annual ritual in the Perar būta shrine from 11 to 13 March
2009.
2 According to Jayānanda, he brings the rice and spices received from the muk-
kāldi to his home. He and his family offer chicken and roti made from the rice to
the deity and eat them.
3 Since Balavāṇḍi has feminine aspects, saris and jasmine flowers are offered to
this deity in the nēma.
4 Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi has very little food or drink offered to him. He is said to
receive only the ‘air’ of offerings. This act of pouring the coconut water on the
ground shows that he has received it as an offering.
5 This aṇi is said to be made of 1,001 coconut leaf bones.
6 This is expressed in Tuḷu that ‘patti mānecciḍụ jōga battụdụ kaṭṭina mānecciḍụ
āpɛ (the possession by taking the sword is transferred to the one who is tying
[gaggara or aṇi])’.
7 This ritual is called suriya pāḍonuni.
8 During the ritual, only men can enter the precinct of Baṇṭakaṁba. Women
gather outside the Baṇṭakaṁba and observe the ritual carefully.
9 The original meaning of vākụ piripuni is ‘removing āja’. Āja means that a person
who disputes with one of his/her relatives makes a vow that his/her descend-
ants will never contact with the descendants of the opponent. If the descendants
break the vow, it is believed that a curse will fall on them. Vākụ piripuni is the
ritual to abrogate the vow in front of deity and reconstruct the relationship be-
tween the relatives (see Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 2791).
10 This ritual is also called ‘kaṭṭụ-kaṭṭụleda āvāra (offering food according to the
custom)’.
6 The transaction of wild śakti

In the previous chapters, I have described the basic components of the expe-
riential umwelt of the villagers in Perar, which is based on their relationship
with the land, nature, and deities: that is, houses, ranks, and ritual organi-
sation; the oral epics that narrate the history of būta worship; and the ritual
process of the nēma. In this chapter, I will examine the transactional network
formed performatively between the villagers and deities, focusing on their
interaction in ritual processes. More specifically, I will mainly examine the
following topics: the characteristics of the network formed through the inter-
actions between devotees and būtas incarnated in mediums, the ­relationship
between deities and villagers who participate in reciprocal transactions,
and the circulation of forces and substances in the transactional network.
­Referring to previous studies on gift-exchange, ­substance-code, and per-
sonhood (Appadurai & Breckenridge 1976; M ­ arriott 1976; M­ arriott &
­Inden 1977; Strathern 1988, 1996), I will investigate the ritual transactions
between ­p eople and deities. In addition, referring to ­previous studies on
­purity, ­pollution, and śakti (e.g. Tanaka 1997; Sekine 2002), I will consider
the ­features of the wild śakti circulating between deities and humans.

Transaction, dividuality, and the network in South Asia

In his essay ‘Hindu Transactions: Diversity without Dualism’ published in
1976, Marriott describes South Asian society as ‘an elaborate transactional
culture, characterized by explicit, institutionalized concern for givings and
receivings of many kinds in kinship, work, and worship’ (Marriott 1976,
p. 109). He also proposes that South Asian personhood is characteristically
‘dividual’:

Persons—single actors—are not thought in South Asia to be ‘individ-

ual’, that is, indivisible, bounded units, as they are in much of Western
social and psychological theory as well as in common sense. Instead, it
appears that persons are generally thought by South Asians to be ‘di-
vidual’ or divisible.
(Marriott 1976, p. 111)
 The transaction of wild śakti 83
According to Marriott, dividual persons absorb various material influ-
ences and emit particles of their own ‘coded substances’—essences, res-
idues, or other active influences—to others.1 They engage in transfers of
bodily ­substance-codes through parentage, marriage, provision of services,
and other kinds of interpersonal contact. As a result, ‘Dividual persons,
who must exchange in such ways, are therefore always composites of the
­substance-codes that they take in’ (1976: 111).
Around the same time, Appadurai and Breckenridge (1976) also pub-
lished an article describing the personhood of Hindu deities and the ‘trans-
actional network’ involving humans and deities. According to Appadurai
and Breckenridge, rather than as a mere image or symbol, the deity in a
south Indian temple is conceived of more as a person who is both sentient
and corporeal (1976, p. 190). Through worship and offerings, devotees enter
into an ‘active transactional relationship’ with the deity, which initiates a
process of redistribution. The devotees conduct transactions with the deity
as a ‘special person’:

At one normative level, the deity … commands resources (i.e., services

and goods) such as those which are necessary and appropriate for the
support and materialization of the ritual process described above. But
these resources are not merely authoritatively commanded and received
by the deity. On receipt, they are redistributed in the form of shares
(paṅku) to the royal courtiers, the donor (yajamāna), and worshippers at
large. The authority to command and redistribute resources places the
deity at the center of a transactional nexus in which the deity is ­expected
to be generous. Ritual which constitutes worship provides the sche-
matic and elementary unit in which to observe the transactional network
where first the deity and subsequently the donor are the object of gifting
activity.
(1976, p. 195; emphasis added)

As presented by Appadurai and Breckenridge (1976), this argument has

close similarities to that of Marriott (1976). If Marriott’s ideas of dividual
personhood and substance-code are applied to the account of Appadurai
and Breckenridge, it can be said that both the devotees and the deity are
dividual persons engaged in the exchange of their substance-codes as ‘gifts’
for each other in a transactional network that enchains them.2 As we will
see later in the case of būta worship, the substance-codes gifted by devotees
to deities are offerings, while those given by deities are śakti and blessings,
distributed among devotees in the form of prasāda (blessed offerings from
the altar). On this point, Marriott (1976, pp. 110, 113) describes particles of
substance-codes as constantly in circulation, just as power—present in vari-
ous objects such as persons, gods, and land—flows everywhere. Thus, along
with offerings, which are composites of various social relations, power
­circulates in transactional networks between humans and deities.
84 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Before we consider this point more closely, it is worth considering
­ trathern’s ideas about how persons, hybridity, and networks are presented
S
(1988, 1996). The notion of ‘dividual persons’ presented by M ­ arriott in the
1970s has spread beyond South Asian social contexts, yet most ­discussions
have focused on individual–dividual dichotomy issues, assuming
­correspondence with a dichotomy between Western and non-Western per-
sonhood, or have made cross-cultural comparisons of conceptualisations
of the ‘person’ (e.g. Busby 1997; Rasmussen 2008; Mosko 2010; Smith, FM
2006; Smith, K 2012). As we will see below, by discussing the disposition
of dividual persons in networks that both link and sever social relations,
Strathern presents an original analytical lens beyond the cultural-­relativistic
view of personhood.

Hybrid personhood in transactions, or how to cut the network

Strathern (1988) notably applied Marriott’s notion ‘dividual person’ in her
analysis of Melanesian society. In The Gender of the Gift (1988), she wrote,
‘Melanesian persons are as dividually as they are individually conceived …
Indeed, persons are frequently constructed as the plural and composite site
of the relationships that produced them’ (p. 13). Her remarks certainly re-
call Marriott’s insistence that dividual persons are always composites of the
­substance-codes that they take in through transactions (1976, p. 111).
Later, in her 1996 essay ‘Cutting the Network’, Strathern elaborates her
notion of the (dividual) person in Melanesia by applying the concepts of
‘hybrid’ and ‘network’ originally developed by actor–network theorists (e.g.
Latour 1993; Warnier 1995). Using de Coppet’s ethnography of the ’Aré’aré
of the Solomon Islands (in Barraud et al. 1994, pp. 40–65), Strathern illus-
trates the hybridity of humans in this society. According to de Coppet, the
’Aré’aré divide living creatures into three elements: body, breath, and im-
age. Upon death, the person decomposes into these: the body, the product
of others’ nurturing, is eaten as taro; breath is taken away in the breath of
slaughtered pigs; and the image becomes the ancestor (Strathern 1996, pp.
525–526). Strathern thus argues that the living human being is a ‘hybrid’
person and, moreover, each of the three components is also a person.3 She
writes:

I use the term ‘person’ since the human being is also conceived as an
aggregation of relations; it can take the form of an object available for
consumption by those others who compose it. In these acts of consump-
tion, the person is, so to speak, hybridized, dispersed among a network
of others.
(Strathern 1996, p. 526)

Here Strathern’s main concern, however, is not how a network composed

of both human and nonhuman persons extends itself, but how its extension
 The transaction of wild śakti 85
can be controlled or cut. In the Solomon Islands, shell money, which em-
bodies the image of the deceased, plays an important role. In essence, an
item of shell money has circulatory power because other entities, events, and
products are converted into it: past encounters and relationships circulate
in condensed form in its ‘body’. At death, there is a finalising sequence of
exchanges in which the two other components of the living human, body
and breath, are converted into money (Barraud et al. 1994, pp. 53–54). The
ancestor-image eventually encompasses the others, and the sequence stops
at that point. ‘Money thus becomes the repository or container of prior in-
terchanges’ (Strathern 1996, p. 526).
Strathern’s close investigation of de Coppet’s ethnography of the ’Aré’aré
(including marriage and kinship systems in Melanesia, which are beyond the
scope of this chapter) yields several important axioms regarding hybridity
and networks: the hybrid is an amalgam of social relations (Strathern 1996,
p. 527); networks—either homogeneous or heterogeneous—constructed
through transactions must have limits; and the protocols for creating net-
works of varying lengths have different capacities for sustaining, reversing,
or stopping flow (pp. 523, 528–529). This analysis enables Strathern to iden-
tify a problem with the analytical networks of actor–network theory, which
are basically regarded as limitless (1996, p. 523). Contrary to the network
as conceived by some actor–network theorists, Strathern’s network has a
certain length and thus can be cut at some point.4
The above argument can be reconsidered from the perspective of the Ge-
staltkreis theory examined in Chapter 1: the transactional network is per-
formatively formed through the interactions of both human and nonhuman
actors; at the same time, it forms a cyclical circle, or Kreis, through the cir-
culation of substances within the network. In other words, the transactional
network describes its boundary through its motion, while it is performa-
tively formed through the flow of substance-codes.
As we will see below, in būta worship in South Kanara, the transactional
network which links humans, deities, and land and nature is formed through
the circulation of offerings that embody the fertility of the land and blessings
that manifest the wild śakti. At the same time, the network performatively
creates the boundary which marks social as well as geographical borders.5
Moreover, through transactions of substance-codes, the participants of
the transactional network (re)create their ways of being in relation to their
human and nonhuman partners. Next, I will investigate in more detail the
transactional network between the būtas and villagers in Perar.

Ritual transaction, dividual persons, and the circulation of

śakti
First, I examine the kambuḷa ritual described in Chapter 2, which is ded-
icated to the būtas and organised by the first guttu of Perar. By analysing
the interactions between būtas and humans in the kambuḷa ritual in terms
86 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
of dividual persons, hybridity, and the network, I attempt to show how the
circulation of substance-codes between the human realm and the wild is the
flow of life itself, the basis of the villagers’ lives.
As seen in Chapter 2, the whole ritual process can be understood as the
circulation of būta śakti from the wild forests and hills (guḍḍɛ) to the culti-
vated field. The wild and fertile power of the deities, manifested in the buf-
falo būtas, is summoned by Subba. Through his invocation of the būtas in
the būta territory of the wild mountain, Subba himself partly embodies their
wild and fertile power. This power, concomitant with Subba’s journey, first
flows into the manjotti field and is distributed among the male members of
the Manṣa family. Then the power of the būtas, which is expressed in Subba
(metaphorically) as well as in the living buffalo (metonymically), finally
flows into the kambuḷa field as the ‘bride’. The kambuḷa field is filled with the
būtas’ power, and later this power is transformed into the paddy in the field.
In this ritual, the power or substance-code of the buffalo circulates in
the network, linking the wild with the agricultural fields. Hence, the buf-
falo can be regarded as a ‘dividual person’ who is involved in, as well as
constitutes, the transactional network. Subba, as an interim priest, works
as a medium, or carrier of the power, of the buffalo-būta-person. At the
same time, his movements guide the flow of this power by leading it first
into the manjotti, then into the kambuḷa field, and finally into the young
paddy, which he plants by hand. Correspondingly, at harvest time, Subba is
the first person to cut the rice in this field. At this moment the būta’s power,
which had been transferred into the land and produced paddy, returns to
the people through Subba. Here, Subba acts as ‘both container and channel,
blocking flow and bodying it forth’ (Strathern 1996, p. 528). And the paddy
produced in the kambuḷa field can be understood as a hybrid composed of
the wild būta śakti, human labour and service, and the kin relations of the
first guttu family.
Next, focusing on the nēma, let us examine the process of the circulation
and redistribution of the wild śakti personified in various forms such as
human mediums, farm products, and prasāda.
As seen in Chapter 5, during the ritual, the devotees interact with the
deities incarnated in the Baṇṭa priest and Pambada dancer-mediums. The
most significant and repeated form of their interaction is the mutual gifting
between the guttu heads and the deities. In the yearly ritual, the guttus offer
the deities a part of their farm products such as paddy, coconuts, and areca
nuts, which embody the fertile power of the deities, the labour and service of
humans, and the social relations in the village. The deities receive and con-
sume these offerings,6 and they in return give oracles and blessings to ensure
the future prosperity of the whole village. Finally, some of the offerings are
redistributed as prasāda among the devotees. Through this ritual process,
concentrated in the farm products, offerings, and prasāda, the būta śakti
flows and circulates in the transactional network, which is part of the more
extensive network between humans and deities, as illustrated in Figure 6.1:
 The transaction of wild śakti 87

Humans receive and (re)distribute the Būtas receive and

blessed substances as prasāda from būtas; consume the offerings;

consume the prasāda; cultivate the land to give blessings and śakti to

grow and harvest farm products; give humans

farm products as offerings to būtas

Figure 6.1 The transactional network between humans and būtas.

The farm products and prasāda, which embody the wild śakti and crys-
tallise people’s vital activities, are thus produced through the transaction
between humans, deities, land, and nature; at the same time, they support
and enable the reproduction of people’s lives.
In these transactions, the offerings and their transformed substances,
prasāda—regarded as the substance-codes of humans and deities, that is,
hybrid ‘persons’—are consumed and thus dispersed among the network
(Strathern 1996, p. 526). Similar to the role of Subba in the kambuḷa ritual,
here the būta mediums act as carriers of the būtas’ power, and at the same
time, their movements induce and direct the flow of the substance-codes.
Likewise, the būtas and devotees are regarded as dividual persons who ex-
change their substance-codes with each other; or to use Strathern’s words,
they act as the ‘turning point for directing the flow of fertility back’ (Strath-
ern 1996, p. 528).
Both in the kambuḷa and the nēma, the flow of substance-codes is pri-
marily personified in and directed by the medium, the priest, or both. It
is also noteworthy that the extension of the transactional network is lim-
ited by the rights and affiliations of both the humans and the deities (see
Strathern 1996, p. 525). For the humans, the extension of the circulation
and (re)distribution of substance-codes as prasāda is restricted to members
who have the right and duty to enter into transactional relations with the
deities (moreover, the flow and (re)distribution process of substance-codes is
ordered according to the rank and sex of the participants7). For the deities,
the extension of the circulation of substance-codes as offerings is limited
to those deities worshipped by the main patrons of the ritual, that is, the
būtas affiliated with or personifying the power of a particular house, plot
of land, or guḍḍɛ. Therefore, for instance, in the ritual held at the family
level, offerings are presented to the būtas affiliated with the family’s land,
and prasāda is distributed among the members of the family. Meanwhile,
88 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
in the case of the nēma, offerings are presented to the deities enshrined in
the village shrine, and the gaḍipatinārụ, the heads of the guttus, and other
villagers responsible for the primary ritual services have priority regarding
receiving prasāda.
Nevertheless, neither the extent of the transactional network nor the or-
der of the distribution of substance-codes is permanent; rather, they are
performatively formed through ritual practice. Therefore, as we will see in
Chapter 8, the traditional order is often altered by new outsiders joining,
and this results in disputes among the ritual participants. At the same time,
as we will see in Chapters 8, 12, and 13, by joining in a newly formed trans-
actional process, a new ritual community can be created among people with
various backgrounds and intentions.
From the above description, it is clear that the ritual transactions and
flow of substance-codes in the transactional network performatively link
the participants, both human and nonhuman, and at the same time set the
boundaries separating the people according to their affiliations and the bū-
tas according to their identification with particular territories.
The importance of the boundary or limit of the transactional network
corresponds to the importance of the boundary of a person directly inter-
acting with the deities. Namely, as we will see in Chapter 7, in the būta ritual,
a Pambada medium transforms himself through an exchange of perspec-
tives with a deity, while he strives to maintain his boundary as a person to
avoid the complete loss of himself. In other words, how to maintain one’s
boundary as a person becomes a serious question, because one has to inter-
act with others not as an autonomous individual, but as a dividual person
(see Gell 1995; Laidlaw 2000, pp. 629–631).8
I will next investigate more closely the characteristics of the wild śakti,
the most important substance-code circulating in the transactional
network.

Untamed śakti in the būta ritual

Wild śakti and ritual pollution

As seen in Chapter 2, būta worship is deeply related to the forests and hills
called guḍḍɛ, and some wild animals dwelling in the guḍḍɛ are regarded as
higher-ranked būtas. Likewise, the wild śakti flowing in the guḍḍɛ is the
most important substance-code that circulates in the transactional network
between humans and deities. I will first examine the characteristics of śakti
in būta worship in terms of purity and pollution.
In previous studies on Hindu rituals in India, divine power or śakti has
been uniquely related to the notions of ‘purity’ and ‘pollution’. Namely, it
is regarded that in the dualistic relation of purity and impurity, purity is
endangered by impurity with contamination; meanwhile, śakti is transcen-
dental and thus immune to pollution.9 In addition, śakti is regarded both
 The transaction of wild śakti 89
as dangerous and as the fertile energy of a fierce goddess (see Uchiyamada
2000, p. 71; Fuller 2004, pp. 44–48).
A number of fundamental characteristics of būtas are inextricably linked
to wildness and femininity, in a word, śakti. It is notable that in Tuḷu, śakti
can refer to power, the existence of the supernatural powers of the būta, or
the būta itself (Upadhyaya 1988–1997, p. 2834). That the būtas are believed
to be the spirits of local heroes/heroines who met tragic deaths—or those
of wild animals—contributes to this sense of danger and feral power. This
is further connected to a feminine aspect of the būta, as in Perar, Balavāṇḍi
is regarded as androgynous, and devotees offer beautiful saris to the de-
ity. As these elements show, the būtas embody the strong, dangerous, and
fertile śakti. In būta worship, then, what is the relationship between purity
(mad ̣i or sudda), pollution (mayiligԑ or asudda), and śakti? Yatish Pambada,
the dancer-medium of Balavāṇḍi in Perar, explained the rules he follows in
terms of sudda:

We, as būta performers, should not eat food offered at a funeral. I strictly
follow this rule. Apart from that, we should not eat food prepared by a
woman who is menstruating. Also, we should not eat food in the houses
of Ācāri, Catholics, or Muslims. Though it is not easy for us to obey all
the rules (niyama) today, we try to be in a state of purity (sudda) as much
as we can.
(Yatish Pambada, 16 June 2008)

Similarly, Jayānanda Pambada, the dancer-medium of Arasu and

Pilicāmuṇḍi, explained that every dancer-medium should strictly obey par-
ticular rules to invoke the būta in the ritual:

The būta performance is called nēma. This word originated from ni-
yama [rules and regulations], in Sanskrit. Only when the performer
obeys the rules, will it be successful. So, we should be in the condition
of niyama niṣṭɛ [devoting oneself to the rule]. We should follow several
ritual practices. For instance, I’m a strict vegetarian and I never drink
alcohol. If you obey these rules, daiva will definitely come to you.
(Jayānanda Pambada, 16 May 2008)

As shown in these narratives, for both, the notions of niyama and sudda are
crucial to being a proper dancer-medium. At first glance, their keen concern
for the rules and purity seems to be evidence of the Sanskritisation of the
Pambada dancer-mediums; they seem to adopt both Sanskritic notions and
the Brahmanical doctrine, such as vegetarianism and asceticism, to raise
themselves up to a higher position in the caste hierarchy (see Srinivas 1952,
pp. 30–31). However, the notion of purity in the context of būta worship can-
not be reduced to a dualistic model in which purity is opposed to an impurity
that endangers the former with contamination. Rather, the notion of purity
90 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
is closely connected with that of śakti, which is transcendental and thus
immune to pollution. Jayānanda Pambada’s comments on the relationship
between the purification of a būta impersonator and ritual pollution provide
a clue to understanding this point.

When a Pambada is selected as a būta impersonator, he should be pu-

rified by a Brahman priest. This ritual is called kalaśasnāna. After this
ritual, he becomes immune to the pollution that occurs through either
death or birth. He becomes free from them. Even if his father dies, he is
exempt from sūtaka [death-pollution].
(Jayānanda Pambada, 16 June 2008)

The most critical events regarding ritual pollution are death and birth.
Death and birth bring a state of ritual pollution, called sūtaka and amɛ re-
spectively, within a kuṭuma (matrilineal joint family). If someone dies or
gives birth in a kuṭuma, all of the kuṭuma members are regarded as be-
ing temporarily polluted, and thus they have to follow several taboos for
a certain period.10 Purified by a Brahman priest, however, a Pambada
­dancer-medium does not have to take on the fundamental pollution of death
and birth. While he has to keep himself away from these events, he is ex-
empted from the ritual pollution which is automatically applied to all of the
kuṭuma members.
The above issue helps us to understand the relationship of purity, pol-
lution, and śakti in būta worship; after the purification ritual, a Pambada
dancer-medium is enabled to access the śakti of the būta, and thus to obtain
sacredness, which frees him from ritual pollution.11 Though he must keep
himself pure and clean by obeying various rules, it is not his ultimate goal
to attain a purity that is opposed to, and endangered by, pollution. In other
words, as Fuller (1979, pp. 463–464, 469) argues about rituals in a Hindu
temple, purity is not the end of the ritual but is only a means of accessing
divine power. Thus, the purity of a Pambada dancer-medium should be un-
derstood as a necessary condition for him to invoke śakti within himself.

Untamed śakti
I will next investigate the dynamic circulation of śakti in the nēma in Perar,
focusing on the interrelation between Balavāṇḍi and Bramma. As already
mentioned, śakti is generally regarded as the dangerous as well as fertile en-
ergy of a fierce goddess. It is not stable, but rather a dynamic flow of divine
force (see Tanaka 1997, p. 13). Some previous studies on goddess worship
in Indian and Sri Lankan villages have analysed the ritual as the process
of the emergence and control of śakti. For instance, Tanaka (1997, p. 148)
describes abhiṣeka (consecration rituals), in which śakti created in the fire
is transferred to the sanctum sanctorum, the purest place in the temple,
and finally taken into the village, as the transformation of divine power
 The transaction of wild śakti 91
‘from something hot, dangerous and wild, into “grace (the root meaning of
prasāda in Sanskrit)”’. Similarly, focusing on a village ritual in Tamil Nadu,
Sekine (2002) points to the mutually complementary relationship between
god and goddess by describing the role of the Sanskritic god who tames the
divine power of the fierce goddess. Here, their relationship is analysed not as
a hierarchy based on the binary opposition of purity and impurity assumed
by Dumont (1970, 1980), but as the dynamism of the active, creative śakti
and its stabilisation.12
The above viewpoints of these previous studies are suggestive for consid-
ering the interrelation between Balavāṇḍi and Bramma in the nēma in Perar.
In the ritual, Balavāṇḍi and Bramma are presented as contrastive deities to
each other. While Balavāṇḍi is an active, dangerous, and androgynous deity
belonging to the realm of the wild, Bramma, as shown in the stable statue
of the brammaliṅga, is regarded as static and masculine. In the nēma, Bala-
vāṇḍi, incarnated in Yatish Pambada, appears from outside the shrine as a
half-naked, dangerous, and furious deity, dances around the precinct, and
finally reaches the Bramma guṇḍa. This movement of Balavāṇḍi visualises
the flow of the wild śakti embodied by the deity.
As already seen, purity for the būta medium is not the same as a purity
contrasted to impurity. Rather, it is regarded as the necessary condition to
invoke śakti within oneself, which transcends the binary opposition of pu-
rity and impurity. Likewise, it is undeniable that the interrelation between
Balavāṇḍi and Bramma in the nēma also expresses not the simple opposition
of impurity and purity, but the relation between śakti and something that
is linked to it. In this ritual, however, the process in which the wild śakti
embodied by Balavāṇḍi is tamed by Bramma and transformed into graceful
prasāda is nebulous. What is emphasised in the ritual is not the influx of a
goddess’s śakti and its transformation by a masculine god, but the battle
of two powerful būtas. In this battle, however, Bramma never appears as
himself except as the figure of the brammaliṅga; in addition, the Brahman
priests serving at the Bramma guṇḍa never respond to Balavāṇḍi incarnated
in the dancer-medium. Therefore, the battle seems instead one-sided, with
only Balavāṇḍi approaching.
Unlike the cases shown in the previous studies, the nēma ritual seems
insufficiently structured. As we will see below, this is due to the unique
features of the relationship between Bramma and Balavāṇḍi, and also
the relationship between the devotees and būtas, or the wild śakti. As al-
ready mentioned, Bramma is often identified as the Hindu god Brahma,
and in the village shrine in Perar, only Bramma is served by Brahman
priests. At the same time, Bramma occupies the position of supreme
būta. Despite being enshrined in a temple-like guṇḍa and being offered
special rites by Brahman priests, Bramma is still distinct from the San-
skritic Hindu god. Here, one cannot find the systematic ritual structure
through which the Sanskritic masculine god receives and stabilises the
goddess’s śakti.
92 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Although Bramma has features of a stable and masculine god, it is also
a powerful and dangerous būta embodying wild śakti (see Claus 1978, pp.
4–10). Therefore, the interaction between Bramma and Balavāṇḍi in the
ritual expresses not the process of the influx of dangerous śakti and its sta-
bilisation, but rather the influx, overflow, and struggle of śakti. In the ritual
process, divine śakti is not fully stabilised but circulates with threatening
features of the wild, and then is directly received by devotees in its ‘raw’
state. As seen in Chapter 5, the interaction between devotees and deities
includes not only the reciprocal exchange of offerings and blessings, but
also the fearsome būtas’ expressions of ire and their mollification by the
devotees. This also shows that the būtas’ power emerges in the ritual as the
dangerous, untamed, wild śakti itself.
Although Bramma partially takes on the role of transforming the wild
śakti into safer grace, this is not completed in the ritual. Instead, the unique-
ness of būta worship not fully subsumed under the Brahmanical ritual—i.e.
people being able to directly interact with the dangerous and fertile śakti
without the mediation of the Sanskritic god—is preserved through this in-
completeness of the calming of the wild śakti.
As seen in this chapter, the nēma in Perar has the basic structure of an
influx of śakti from the realm of the wild and its distribution as prasāda
among the devotees. The core of the whole ritual, however, is not the taming
of śakti by a Sanskritic god, but the direct interaction between the devotees
and the divine śakti. It is also a process of gift-exchange between humans
and deities, which includes not only positive but also negative elements such
as fury, curses, fear, and appeasement. For the devotees, therefore, the būta
ritual is the means of receiving blessings and grace from the deities, and at
the same time, it is an attempt to interact with the dangerous śakti in order
to mediate the human realm and the wild realm. I will consider this issue
in more detail in Chapter 13, focusing on the būta worship in an industrial
plant.
The centrality of wild śakti shown in ritual practice, however, cannot be
observed in the physical structure of the village būta shrine, in which the
Bramma guṇḍa is centred. As we will see in Chapter 8, this issue became
the critical question in a trial pitting the first guttu family against the Brah-
man priest. Before considering this issue in detail, I will examine in the next
chapter the mutual interaction between humans and deities, focusing on the
experiences of the būta mediums.

Notes
1 On the concept of ‘substance-code’, Marriott writes:
Varied codes of action or codes for conduct (dharma) are thought to be nat-
urally embodied in actors and otherwise substantialized in the flow of things
that pass among actors. Thus the assumption of the easy, proper separability
of action from actor, of code from substance … is generally absent: code
 The transaction of wild śakti 93
and substance … cannot have separate existences in this world of consti-
tuted things as conceived by most South Asians … Before one begins to think
of Hindu transactions, one thus needs firmly to understand that those who
transact as well as what and how they transact are thought to be inseparably
“code-substance” or “substance-code”
(1976, pp. 109–110; emphasis added).
On the issue of the self and personhood in South Asian societies, see also Marri-
ott and Inden (1977), Daniel (1984), Busby (1997), Sax (2002), and Carsten (2011).
2 On gift-exchange in Hindu society, see also Parry (1986) and Raheja (1988).
3 In other words, as Parry (1986, p. 457) writes in his interpretation of The Gift
(Mauss 1990 [1950]), there is no absolute disjunction between persons and things.
4 Strathern also argues, ‘If we take certain kinds of networks as socially expanded
hybrids then we can take hybrids as condensed networks. That condensation
works as a summation or stop’ (1996, p. 523).
5 Concerning the issue of the circulation and boundaries of substance-codes,
arguments on landscape and topology are suggestive. See, for instance, Munn
(1996) and Uchiyamada (1999, 2000).
6 Regarding the consumption of offerings by the būtas, after the ritual for
Pilicāmuṇḍi inside the precinct is complete, the deity is offered both vegetarian
offerings and blood sacrifices right outside the shrine building.
7 For instance, in the ritual held at the family level, first the head of the family
and other male members receive the prasāda and then it is distributed among the
female members of the family.
8 As seen in this chapter, one of the methods of maintaining the boundary in
gift-exchange is to restrict who can participate in the transactional network and
limit the circulation of substance-codes. Another possible way is to refuse to
form the social relationship based on gift-exchange by keeping the gift as ‘pure
gift’ or by impersonalising it. See Laidlaw (2000) and Copeman (2005).
9 On the notions of purity, impurity, and śakti, see Dumont and Pocock (1959),
Harper (1964), Wadley (1977), Fuller (1979), Tanaka (1997, pp. 10–14, 138–139),
and Sekine (2002).
10 If someone dies inside a kuṭuma, the kuṭuma members should not enter temples
or shrines, and should not conduct any auspicious rituals for 16 days. The ritual
pollution brought by death or birth is purified by a ritual called sudda maḷpuni,
in which a Baṇḍāri (barber) man takes on the role of priest.
11 This is the case in purification rituals in Sri Lankan Tamil society presented by
Tanaka (1997, p. 138). According to Tanaka, priests wearing a sacred kāppu cord
containing mantra śakti become immune to death pollution.
12 On the complementary relationship among Hindu deities, see also Fuller (1988)
and Ishii (2015a).
7 Playing with perspectives

In the previous chapter, I explored the formation and dynamism of the

transactional network between villagers and deities. In this chapter, I will
now focus more narrowly on spirit possession, investigating in more detail
the relationship between people and būtas. Rather than following the exten-
sive circulation of substance-codes such as offerings, prasāda, and śakti, I
will examine the intangible corporal experiences involved: the experiences
of the būta mediums who receive divine śakti, and the experience of the dev-
otees who interact with the deities.
First, it is helpful to elaborate this point in terms of jōga and māya,
which were examined in Chapter 1. I focused in Chapter 6 on the question
of how wild śakti, which flows from the realm of māya into the realm of
jōga, is transformed into other substances and distributed among the peo-
ple. In this chapter, I will instead focus on the space and time of spirit pos-
session, that is, the borders of the realms of jōga and māya, to understand
the art of the būta mediums who manifest the wild śakti by becoming the
deities while remaining in the ambiguous, liminal state of possession. I
will also investigate from the viewpoint of perspective exchange how the
devotees and būta mediums interact with each other and mutually form
their selves.
As we will see below, spirit possession has often been analysed in terms
of the permeability of the self. At the same time, the idea of perspective
exchange has become a key issue in studies on ‘new animism’ (see Ped-
ersen 2001).1 Moreover, the issue of the transformation and reflexivity of
the self, which is the crucial question in spirit possession and perspective
exchange, is not only key to understanding the experience of the pos-
sessed, but also suggestive for understanding how people form their self
and their umwelt through interrelation with others. Below, I will first
examine several studies which analyse spirit possession in terms of the
permeability of the self. I will then overview the studies on perspective
exchange between human and nonhuman beings. Based on these previ-
ous studies, I will consider the exchange of perspectives between humans
and deities in būta worship.
 Playing with perspectives 95
Spirit possession and the permeable person
Spirit possession has often been analysed in terms of perspective and its
alteration. Kapferer (1979, 1991), based on Mead’s (1962 [1934]) argument on
the construction of the self, studies demonic possession in Sri Lanka as the
disruption of reciprocal perspectives between the possessed self and healthy
other. Kapferer then describes the exorcism as the process of reconstructing
one’s intersubjectivity. By contrast, Boddy (1988, p. 19; 1989, pp. 350–351)
analyses the zār possession in Sudan as an occasion for the possessed to
achieve a broadened perspective, which enables her to see the world ‘with
the eyes of the spirit’, to transcend her everyday reality and herself.
Some scholars focus also on the concept of permeability to comprehend
spirit possession. Boddy defines possession as

a broad term referring to an integration of spirit and matter, force or

power and corporeal reality, in a cosmos where the boundaries between
an individual and her environment are acknowledged to be permeable,
flexibly drawn, or at least negotiable.
(1994, p. 407)

In the same manner, Keller insists that it is necessary to revalue ‘receptivity

and permeability beyond the usual, negative associations of such openness
with passivity and weakness’ (2002, p. 9) in order to interpret the agency of
the possessed.
These arguments show that spirit possession has been regarded as a phe-
nomenon concerning foremost selfhood and its shifting or fluid boundaries.
This theme of shifting the boundaries or of a metamorphosis of the self in
relation to the other closely relates to the notion of mimesis: the human fac-
ulty to ‘yield into and become Other’ (Taussig 1993, p. xiii).
Studies regarding spirit possession as mimetic practice tend to focus on its
critical function. Stoller (1995), using Benjamin-Taussig’s notion of ‘mimetic
faculty’ (Benjamin 1966, pp. 96–99; Taussig 1993), describes Hauka posses-
sion in West Africa as the tactics of the colonised to mimic the colonisers in
order to divert their power and to master them. Rosenthal (1998, pp. 75–76,
95–97) analyses Gorovodu possession in Togo as a mimetic ritual which
manifests commentaries on ‘modernity’. In a broader context, Boddy argues
that the notion of mimesis enables us to recognise ‘the multidimensioned
resistances possession cults evince to Enlightenment myths of context-free
Reason, the mischief they work with capitalist reifications, their iconoclastic
interpretations of commodities and bodily disciplines’ (1994, p. 425). Thus,
spirit possession characterised by perspective alteration, permeability, and
mimesis has been analysed as an ‘embodied critique’ (Boddy 1994, p. 419) of
modernity, colonialism, or global political and economic domination.
This understanding of spirit possession as the critique of modernity and
other hegemonies corresponds to a view that distinguishes the possessed self
96 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
from the ideal modern Western self. Here, the studies on spirit ­possession
link with those on self and personhood. For instance, Smith (2006, pp. 19,
74–75) points out that Boddy’s (1994, p. 407) definition of spirit possession,
as the exposure of the fluid and permeable nature of personal identity,
­coincides well with the features of South Asian personhood, which is fluid,
divisible, and permeable. The possessed person or the South Asian person
is described in contrast with the ideal Western, ‘impermeable, autonomous
person’ (Marriott 1976, p. 110, quoted in Smith 2006, p. 74).
Pointing out the critical function of spirit possession and also highlight-
ing the fluid and permeable characteristics of the possessed, some of these
­approaches have effectively posed alternatives to the ‘possessive individual-
ism’ of the West (MacPherson 1964, quoted in Johnson 2011, p. 417).2 At the
same time, by attributing these characteristics specifically to the possessed,
this vein of argument has alienated from ordinary human experience the expe-
rience of the possessed as well as the permeable, mimetic status of one’s being.3
However, as Boddy (1994, p. 425) partly admits, mimesis, permeability,
and perspective alteration are all integral parts of one’s being in relation
to others. In this sense, the possessed may be those who best exercise the
­m imetic faculty as ‘an inherent part of the human condition’ (Willerslev
2007, p. 9). Still, as we will see later, the possessed person is not so permeable
as to lose his self completely, just as the ‘modern’ person is not so imperme-
able to let nothing enter into her self.
To deepen the investigation into permeability, mimesis, and self-­alteration
in spirit possession, it is beneficial to consider a number of studies on per-
spective exchange, which extensively discuss comparable issues. Though
there are various arguments on this subject, mainly in the fields of develop-
mental psychology, phenomenology, and philosophy,4 here I focus on the
anthropological discussion of perspectivism.

The exchange of perspectives between humans and nonhumans

In his article ‘Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism’, Vivei-
ros de Castro (1998) presents perspectivism as the key concept characteris-
ing the human–nonhuman relationship in Amazonian societies. According
to indigenous Amazonian theory, animals and spirits regard themselves as
people, while they perceiving humans as the spirits or animals. Every animal
species possesses a soul or spirit; hence, they are conscious subjects capable
of having their own point of view. Or rather, in the context of Amerindian
perspectivism, it is more accurate to say that this point of view creates the
subject. Though animals see things in an analogous way to the way we do,
each species sees different things because every species has its own bodily
uniqueness and ways of being that constitute a habitus (Viveiros de Castro
1998, pp. 470–472, 476–478).
Focusing on shamanism and warfare in Amerindian societies in a
more recent article, Viveiros de Castro (2004b) advances his argument on
 Playing with perspectives 97
perspectivism. Here, he not only points out the difference of perspectives
among the species, but also considers the exchange of perspectives between
humans and nonhumans, between self and other.
According to Viveiros de Castro, shamanism is the capacity to cross on-
tological boundaries and adopt the perspective of nonhuman subjectivities.
It is also a form of acting that presupposes a mode of knowing: knowing
the object by personifying it and taking on its point of view. Shamans can
turn into nonhumans such as animals and spirits and see them as they see
themselves. But this act also entails risk. If ordinary humans happen to see
a nonhuman in human form, they may be overwhelmed by the nonhuman
subjectivity and be transformed into an animal or a spirit. Thus for Viveiros
de Castro, a ‘meeting or exchange of perspectives is, in brief, a dangerous
business’ (2004b, p. 468).
Similar to shamans, warriors are also engaged in the dangerous business
of exchanging perspectives with their enemies. In the same way that the
shaman turns into an animal to acquire its perspective, the warrior must
become his enemy to apprehend him from the inside. By gaining the ene-
my’s perspective and seeing himself as the enemy sees him, the warrior can
become himself as a full subject. This kind of enmity is ‘a reciprocal sub-
jectification: an exchange, a transfer, of points of view’ (Viveiros de Castro
2004b, p. 479).
Viveiros de Castro’s arguments on perspectivism have had a great influence
on recent anthropology and have evoked much discussion.5 Through exami-
nations of his ideas from various angles, some scholars have tried to present
alternative understandings of perspective and its alteration. For ­example,
Turner (2009) calls attention to the social, relational, and ­alterable aspects
of the human body, which play a fundamental role in perspective transfor-
mation. Finding vestiges of structuralism in Viveiros de Castro’s arguments,
he claims that Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivism characterises perspectives
as fixed aspects of species identity, like synchronic signifieds abstracted
from discourse. Against this, Turner argues that perspectives are rooted in
the synthetic social and physical body, such that they can be transformed
along with the transformation of the body, which is integrally and socially
connected to other bodies. According to Turner, the body ‘is not an abstract
object with a fixed, culturally human perspective, but a process compris-
ing a series of transformations, each of which entails a transformation of
­perspectives’ (2009, p. 30).
Here, Turner presents a clearly different understanding of perspective
transformation from that of Viveiros de Castro. Although Viveiros de Cas-
tro also surely considers the transformation of both body and perspective,
he mainly deals with the drastic and total interchange of one set of body-­
perspectives with another; for example, a shaman shifts into animal form to
assume its perspective, and then reverts to his human body-perspective. By
contrast, Turner focuses on the more gradual or generative transformation
of the body itself, which is accompanied by perspective transformation.6
98 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Before considering this issue in detail, however, let us examine Willerslev’s
argument (2004, 2007) on hunter–prey relations and perspective exchange
among Siberian Yukaghirs. According to Willerslev, in the world of the
­Yukaghirs, persons can take on a variety of forms such as trees, spirits, and
mammals, of which human beings are only one type. Humans and animals
can move in and out of different species’ perspectives by temporarily assuming
alien bodies. Among the Yukaghirs, ‘this capacity to take on the appearance
and viewpoint of another being is one of the key aspects of being a person’
(Willerslev 2007, p. 2). It is their faculty for mimesis, Willerslev argues, which
allows the Yukaghirs—especially hunters—to be similar to other species.
To lure and kill his prey, a hunter imitates its behaviour. Through this mi-
metic practice, he can assume the animal’s point of view to exercise critical
power over it. However, this is dangerous for the hunter because he may lose his
original identity and undergo an irreversible metamorphosis (Willerslev 2004,
p. 629). To avoid this risk, the hunter must retain his self-awareness during his
mimetic practice. Even if he behaves as an animal to gain its perspective, he
still has to maintain his identity and a kind of ‘depth reflexivity’ to be able to
turn back into himself. Willerslev calls this state of the hunter’s consciousness
a ‘double perspective’. Taking on an alien body, therefore, does not imply the
full identification of a person with the other but a ‘partial one’ (Pedersen 2001,
p. 416). It permits the person to act in between identities. It also gives him ‘a
new potential for action, as he is freed from the bodily limits of both his own
species and those of the species imitated’ (Willerslev 2007, pp. 95–96).
While arguing the significance of perspective exchange for the Yukaghirs,
Willerslev points out the danger of a total exchange or fusion of perspec-
tives and emphasises the importance of retaining reflexive self-awareness
amid perspective exchange. Similar to Boddy (1988) and Keller (2002), here
perspective, subjectivity, and identity are considered not as the fixed, stable,
or intrinsic foundation of a person but rather as a vulnerable condition that
can easily be transformed, eroded, or dissolved.7 Willerslev’s argument is
distinctive, however, in its focus not only on the permeable aspect of the self,
but also on the indispensability of reflexive self-awareness for the protection
of the self from total erosion.
This corresponds to the argument in the Gestaltkreis theory regarding the
integrity and transformation of an organism as the subject. In his argument
on the crisis of an organism, von Weizsäcker points out the importance of
the self-referential function of perception for maintaining its homeostasis:
that is, not taking the alteration of the self seriously (1997, p. 109; see also
Blankenburg 1991, pp. 106–109). As we will see below, this issue of perspec-
tive exchange and self-reflexivity is important for understanding the experi-
ence of the būta mediums.
Nonetheless, Willerslev’s argument cannot fully grasp the possibility of
people not only switching their perspective momentarily but also transform-
ing themselves through the continual experience of perspective exchange,
since Willerslev stresses the protection and recovery of one’s original identity.
 Playing with perspectives 99
In other words, when a hunter returns to the encampment from the hunt and
turns back into himself, can he turn back into exactly the same self? Or rather,
has he not been altered by his experience of exchanging perspectives with his
prey? This latter possibility suggests that the hunter enters into a gradual pro-
cess of transformation to become a ‘real’ or ‘better’ hunter/human in relation
to his prey: he modifies his embodied perspective and his self accordingly to
suit the social relations with his intimate other—his prey. To consider this
possibility is to consider the reflexive and alterable aspects of one’s self, body,
and perspective.8 In the next section, I will inquire into this issue focusing on
the relations between deities, mediums, and devotees in būta worship.

The mimetic art of būta mediums

As seen in Chapter 3, the roles of the būta dancer-mediums are hereditary,
played by the male members of a Pambada family living in the village.
Among the Pambada family in Perar, two youths—Jayānanda and his sec-
ond cousin Yatish Pambada—play the central role as the dancer-mediums
of the three main būtas: Balavāṇḍi, Arasu, and Pilicāmuṇḍi. They have suc-
ceeded the profession and role of būta dancer-mediums from their fathers,
who were also prominent dancer-mediums. Yatish narrated his story of be-
coming Balavāṇḍi’s dancer-medium in Perar this way:

Following my father, I started this profession when I was 11 years old.

At that time, I performed only small deities and not great daiva [the
honorific name for būtas]. Here, in our village, I started to perform Ba-
lavāṇḍi after my father died two years ago … This means that this profes-
sion is hereditary. An outsider cannot be the performer of these daivas.
(Yatish Pambada, 16 June 2008)

According to Jayānanda, he started his profession as a būta dancer-medium

when he was 12 years old. At the beginning, he performed a būta called Ba-
vano, who is an assistant būta of Pilicāmuṇḍi. When he was 15, he started to
perform one of the rājanụ daiva (kingly būtas) with the help of his father. He
narrates the succession of his profession as follows:

Yes, I have inherited this tradition from my father. But it was already
in my blood too, as we belong to the community of performers. For ex-
ample, you don’t need to teach a frog to swim; it swims on its own. Just
like that, in some places, it comes spontaneously through the power of
the daiva. Sometimes my father gave me some hints or knowledge, and
our own observation also helps us … When I was a child, I observed my
father performing various daivas. After several years, I performed the
attendant deity, following the rājanụ daiva performed by my father. This
helped me to learn [the performance].
(Jayānanda Pambada, 16 May 2008)
100 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Like Yatish and Jayānanda, most boys born in the Pambada family fre-
quently attend būta rituals with their close male kin. They take on various
small tasks such as tearing coconut leaves into shreds to make the perform-
er’s skirts, holding up a mirror when the performer is making up his face, or
fanning the performer after his performance. Through these various minor
tasks, these boys learn the techniques of ritual preparation and its process,
the dance and pāḍdana of each būta, and the mode of communication be-
tween būta and devotee. Some of them make their debut as an attendant
būta as young as ten years old.
As Jayānanda pointed out, the art of the būta dancer-medium is gradu-
ally acquired by a candidate through his observation and practice of the
performance among his kin. In this sense, it can be considered that the art
is acquired first through copying another’s performance; a young candidate
begins by mimicking the performance of his father, brother, or paternal un-
cle to learn how to behave as the būta dancer-medium, and, furthermore, as
the deity itself. Through this mimetic practice, he also learns how to relate
his bodily self to others on the ritual stage, for example, to the heads of
the guttus, the mukkāldi, the musicians, and other ritual workers. In other
words, he gradually modifies his perspective to relate himself to the other
actors in the ritual. We will return to this issue later.9

Multiple mimesis and the gift of being possessed

To become a būta dancer-medium is, first of all, to learn how to mimic the
deity and assume its perspective—just as to become a hunter among the
Yukaghirs entails learning how to mimic an animal to assume its viewpoint.
However, contrary to the Yukaghir hunter, who directly imitates his prey’s
behaviour, the būta dancer-medium does not mimic directly what are be-
lieved to be būtas, such as the wild tiger or serpent. Rather, the candidate
imitates another performer impersonating the deity to assume this per-
spective. In this sense, for the būta dancer-mediums, taking on the d ­ eity’s
behaviour and perspective is the mimesis of mimesis, or double mimesis.
However, if we examine their mimetic practice more carefully, we soon
­realise that it should be characterised rather as multiple mimesis: the sen-
ior dancer-­medium, whose performance the candidate imitates, must have
also acquired his art through mimicking his senior, who was in turn also
mimicking another performer. Thus, the performance of a dancer-medium
is possible through a chain of multiple mimetic practices in which the ­deity
is regarded as the always-implicit prototype. Here, the dancer-medium’s
perspective inevitably assumes the multiple perspectives of the other mim-
icking the other mimicking the other, and so on, as when a person sees the
reflections of reflections of reflections in two opposing mirrors.
At the same time, for experienced dancer-mediums, the deity exists not
only as an imaginative prototype far beyond their mimetic practice, but
as the actual power, or śakti, which comes over their bodies through spirit
 Playing with perspectives 101
possession. Most Pambada dancers, moreover, assert that without incarnat-
ing the deity’s power, their performance cannot be successful. In this sense,
the art of the būta dancer-medium consists not only of the active ability to
imitate another performer to acquire his perspective, but also of the passive
capability of being possessed by the deity and being given its perspective.
This capability or gift, however, cannot be acquired by the medium’s inten-
tional practice alone, but rather can only be given by the grace of the deity.
In other words, through his relation with others in the realm of jōga, the
būta medium remoulds himself, and at the same time, he opens his corpo-
real self and receives the divine śakti from the realm of māya, which enables
him to transform himself into the deity. This way of being of the būta me-
dium shows the pathisch aspect of human life that is inevitably related to the
realm of māya.
As seen in the previous chapter, in order to receive this divine favour,
the dancer-medium tries to keep himself in the state of niyama niṣṭɛ
(­devoting oneself to the rules), the ideal condition from which to invoke
the deity’s power. As the deity’s partner in the sacred transaction, he is
very much aware of the circulation of his substance-codes, limiting them
in order to temporarily transfer his body into the deity and achieve its
perspective.
From this discussion, it is clear that the būta dancer-medium first ac-
quires his art through a chain of mimetic practice within his community
and that thus both his art and his perspective inevitably assume a certain
degree of multiplicity. At the same time, however, his art is incomplete un-
less he has the capability of being possessed and receiving the deity’s power.
It is only through the simultaneously active and passive ability to relate one-
self to other people and deities that the būta medium can take on the deity’s
perspective.10

Playing with perspectives

How, then, do the būta mediums realise their experience of incarnating the
deity’s power and assuming its perspective? Here I consider this question
by focusing on the experiences of the Pambada dancer-mediums and the
mukkāldi.
According to Jayānanda Pambada, the deity possesses him momentarily,
while its power remains longer in his body to vitalise it.

The daiva enters my body only for a while. This is called, in Tuḷu, muk-
kālụ mūji gaḷigɛ [for three seconds]. However, the power of the deity re-
mains for hours. It’s just like charging a battery. It takes a short time
to charge it, but its power lasts long. Or, it’s just like the first rain. Re-
ceiving the first rain, dried land sucks up all the water. But in the rainy
season, the ground does not suck water and it just flows into the river.
(Jayānanda Pambada, 8 June 2008)
102 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
By contrast, Yatish Pambada expresses his experience of being possessed as
ākarṣaṇɛ, the moment of divine fascination.

YATISH: At the moment [of being possessed], my consciousness concen-

trates totally on the daiva. This is the moment of ākarṣaṇɛ. For about
three seconds, my soul goes to the daiva … Then I recover my senses
enough to be able to distinguish people.
ISHII: During the ritual, you have to call every guttu’s family name in ­order.11
If you were to make a mistake with the order, it would create ­major
problems. If you lose consciousness, how can you remember this order?
YATISH: No, by that time, I have already recovered my senses. After
ākarṣaṇɛ, a time of śānta svabhāva [the calm state of mind] will come.
When people chant prayers and throw petals and grains on me, I receive
āvēśa [spirit possession].12 After that I know what to do next.
(Interview with Yatish Pambada, 16 June 2008)

Lastly, Bālākrishna Shetty, the mukkāldi of Balavāṇḍi, describes the alter-

ation of his bodily senses caused by spirit possession this way:

BĀLĀKRISHNA: The moment the daiva enters into my body, I can’t see
other people at all. It lasts for only a few seconds though. After that I
recover my consciousness, but the power of the daiva still remains in
me. Because of that, I sometimes feel unusually fierce anger. Balavāṇḍi
­especially is always angry. When the daiva enters my body, a bodily
­alteration occurs. I feel my hands and feet become stiff, and my stomach
fills with gas. My face also changes.
ISHII: After you have passed the power to the Pambada,13 can you free
­yourself from these feelings?
BĀLĀKRISHNA: Here in Perar, from the flag hoisting until its lowering cer-
emony [from the start to the end of the nēma], we don’t know when
­Balavāṇḍi will come to us. I can be possessed anytime. Even when
­Balavāṇḍi possesses the Pambada, he can suddenly come to the m ­ ukkāldi.
That is the speciality of this place.
(Interview with Bālākrishna Shetty, 2 July 2008)

As shown in these narratives, for the būta mediums, spirit possession is

experienced for only a few seconds. When the deity enters his body, the me-
dium is totally fascinated by its power. Though he soon recovers his senses,
he is still overflowing with the deity’s energy, which enables him to behave
as the deity throughout the entire ritual. Thus, in order to behave as the de-
ity in the ritual, the medium must first let the deity enter his body and then
recover from the captivation to work his reflexive awareness to ‘know what
to do next’. Contrary to our common supposition about spirit possession,
it is not always the case that the medium is completely overwhelmed by the
deity’s power and loses himself; rather, he should experience the doubleness
of being both the deity and himself. In other words, the medium incarnates
 Playing with perspectives 103
the deity’s power in himself and yet keeps his self-reflexivity in order to acti-
vate both his and the deity’s perspectives together. This corresponds to the
Yukaghir hunter’s double perspective, which enables him to retain his depth
reflexivity while assuming the other’s viewpoint (Willerslev 2007).
As noted, the art of the būta medium consists of both active and passive
aspects. This art is acquired practically through the mimesis of an intimate
other, and at the same time it is gifted only by divine favour. This gift for
being possessed, however, is not purely a blessing; it can also be dangerous
for its recipient. As illustrated in Bālākrishna Shetty’s narrative, the medium
­cannot foresee how or when the deity will possess him. It suddenly comes over
the medium regardless of his will and forces him to alter his bodily senses,
­sentiments, and perspective. Therefore, the ultimate art of the būta medium
is that of accepting the new perspectives which unexpectedly appear to him,
activating them, and playing with them without being totally absorbed into
them. In other words, it is the art of letting various p­ erspectives—of the self,
of the other performers in the chain of mimetic practice, and of the deities—
play among themselves through his self, and yet doing so self-referentially.14 It
is also the art of manifesting the divine śakti through his body, while remain-
ing on the border of the realms of jōga and māya.
How, then, does the būta medium transform his perspective as well as his
self through the continual experience of mimicking and becoming the deity?
To consider this question, it is necessary to examine the relation not only
between the deity and the medium, but also between the medium and the
other devotees in the ritual. The next section explores the medium’s trans-
formation through these ritual transactions as well as his self-modification.

Ritual transaction and the transformation of the self

In the nēma, the būta dancer-medium must first prepare for his perfor-
mance by breathing a prayer in front of the deity’s altar. He then puts on
his make-up, a special garment, anklets, and other ornaments. His make-up
and garments indicate the particular deity he is going to perform. Through
this process of dressing himself, the dancer-medium gradually prepares his
bodily self to become the deity, and, at the same time, to be identified as
the deity by others. This process can be considered as the transformation
of his social body (Turner 1995, 2009), which is inevitably accompanied by
a certain degree of vitalisation or alteration of his bodily senses. Jayānanda
explains the necessity of the visual, auditory, and olfactory factors for the
būta performance as follows:

The most essential things for the performance are rūpa, rasa, and
gandha. Rūpa denotes the garments of the daiva: make-up, a red smock
and trousers, tiri [a skirt made from coconut leaves], anklets, silver
headgear decorated with flowers, and aṇi. All of them are a part of the
rūpa and they are very important for the performance. Rasa refers to
the instruments and songs (vādya saṅgīta). Drumming is indispensable
104 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
for the performance. Gandha means the scent of flowers and sandal-
wood paste … The ritual becomes meaningful only when these things
are completely present. If they are present, the daiva will spontaneously
come into the performer’s body.
(Jayānanda Pambada, 16 May 2008)

The performer’s social body is transformed from his mundane form into
divine form by means of the ritual circumstances and paraphernalia. Above
all, he is performatively transformed into the deity through the ritual trans-
actions with the other participants.
As seen in Chapter 5, the most important transaction is the one with the
gaḍipatinārụ. In the first stage of the ritual, called the gaggara decci, the
gaḍipatinārụ chants a prayer to summon the deity into the medium’s body.
His body begins to shake at the moment the gaḍipatinārụ offers the prayer,
and then the other guttu heads throw rice and flowers on him. The dancer-­
medium possessed by the deity (hereinafter referred to as the deity-medium)
dances around the precinct and greets the head of each guttu. The next stage
is the recitation of the pāḍdana by the deity-medium in front of the thousands
of devotees thronging the shrine. In the third stage, called the nēma decci,
the deity-medium speaks oracles and then receives a tender coconut from the
gaḍipatinārụ, pours its water on the floor, and gives it back to the gaḍipat-
inārụ with blessings. At the end of the ritual, the deity-medium touches the
hands of each guttu head with his sword and gives them blessings.
In this ritual transaction, the gaḍipatinārụ always accompanies the
­deity-medium in order to respond to his every act as a representative of
the devotees; at the same time, the deity-medium needs the presence of the
­gaḍipatinārụ so that through their interaction he can make his divine power
conspicuous to all the devotees. They are thus in a dialogical and reflex-
ive relation, which demonstrates the ‘ideal’ behaviour of the deity and the
­human in relation to each other.
This ritual transaction allows the devotees to form a link between the
realm of jōga—their experiential umwelt—and the incomprehensible realm
of māya. It also constitutes and substantialises the social relations between
humanity and the deities (cf. Appadurai & Breckenridge 1976). This does
not necessarily mean, however, that humans and deities or their ‘worlds’
exist prior to their ritual transaction. Rather, they performatively come into
existence through the process of ritual transaction.
Through the verbal and physical communication with the deity incar-
nated in the medium, as exemplified in the interaction between the gaḍi-
patinārụ and the deity-medium, the people come to partially assume the
deity’s perspective, which remoulds their perspective from mundane to di-
vine: the people transform themselves into beings related to the realm of
māya. In the same manner, the medium also assumes the people’s perspec-
tive through ritual transaction: he sees himself as the deity in their view,
and thus transforms his perspective into that of a deity related to the realm
 Playing with perspectives 105
of jōga. Through ritual communication and transactions, each actor learns
and re-learns how to behave and relate him- or herself to the other, and
modifies his or her perspective in relation to the other.
At the same time, it is notable that even though the medium performatively
becomes the deity in the course of ritual transaction, he is not completely sub-
jectified as the deity. Rather, as an expert medium, he keeps his self in a reflex-
ive and permeable state through which multiple perspectives appear, act, and
play among themselves. In this sense, the whole ritual is primarily designed
not for the subjectification of the medium and devotees, but rather for intro-
ducing the divine perspective into the everyday human world and activating it
in order to decentralise, shake up, and estrange the latter, if only temporarily.
As we have seen, the būta medium undergoes perspective transformations
at various levels and for various durations. He transforms his perspective by
mimicking other performers, altering his social body, communicating with
ritual participants, and being possessed by the deity. It is through these com-
plex and generative processes of perspective transformation that a person
comes to acquire the art of incarnating the deity: that is, the art of entering
into the other, and at the same time letting the other enter into oneself, with-
out totally losing one’s self. The self here, however, is not a subject obtaining
an immanent viewpoint and voluntarily switching it to another, but rather a
reflexive state or condition through which a person is able to let various per-
spectives come and go. In other words, it is the art of remaining on the edge
of the realms of jōga and māya, avoiding being overwhelmed by the force of
the metamorphosis while nonetheless manifesting the passivity of one’s self.
For the būta medium, niyama niṣṭɛ is thus the manner in which he modifies
his self to be in the right condition for the deity to come and play through
his body.
I have investigated in this chapter the experiences of the būta mediums
and the devotees who exchange perspectives with the deities in the ritual.
The relationship between people and deities, which is revealed through
spirit possession, forms the basis of the transactional network and also gen-
erates the actuality of the divine śakti circulating within it. Through the
experience of gazing at the deity incarnated in the medium and respond-
ing to her words and actions, the devotee partially undertakes the deity’s
perspective and also remoulds his/her own perspective in an umwelt that
embraces the coming and going of būtas. Moreover, while remaining in the
realm of jōga, one nevertheless perceives the incomprehensible wild śakti
and attempts to tune his/her life to it. For each devotee, this means learning
the way to b ­ ecome a person related to the divine śakti that fills the realm of
māya and momentarily manifests itself as the deity in the realm of jōga.
This mutual and concrete experience of interactions with būtas enables
the people to form and sustain the transactional network composed of a
more extensive circulation of substance-codes, including raising agricultural
products; caring for the land, nature, and deities; receiving the wild śakti;
and reproducing their lives and social relations in the village community.
106 Humans and the wild śakti of deities
Notes
1 For recent studies focusing on animism, in addition to the works of Viveiros de
Castro and Willerslev examined in this chapter, see, for instance, Descola (1996),
Bird-David (1999), and Pedersen (2001).
2 As mentioned in Chapter 1, recent studies on magical-religious phenomena, in-
cluding spirit possession, tend to analyse them not as a mere critique of moder-
nity, but as components of it (e.g. Behrend & Luig 1999; Comaroff & Comaroff
2002). One can still find in this new trend the vestiges of the conventional frame-
work of recasting these phenomena as political discourses about modernity. For
a critical view of this trend, see Kapferer (2003) and Ranger (2007).
3 This analytical position corresponds to those of the several previous studies ex-
amined in Chapter 6, which tend to analyse the individual–dividual dichotomy
as if it corresponds with Western and non-Western personhood (e.g. Busby 1997;
Rasmussen 2008; Mosko 2010). At the same time, as Johnson critically points
out, nearly all ethnographers ‘must now at least address the prospect of their
possession, respond to it, apologize for its lack, somehow account for it, as they
construct their authorial position in relation to the work of spirits’ (2011, p. 417,
italics original).
4 See, for instance, Mead (1927), Merleau-Ponty (2012 [1945]), Piaget (1954), Schütz
(1970), Husserl (1973), Blankenburg (1991), and Sakabe (1999).
5 See, for example, Pedersen (2001), Kohn (2007), Pedersen, Empson and Hum-
phrey (2007), and Swancutt (2007).
6 Holbraad and Willerslev (2007) also present an alternative to Viveiros de
­Castro’s model by illustrating the Inner Asian ‘transcendentalist’ model charac-
terised by the asymmetrical, temporal, and generative transformation of one’s
perspective.
7 On the instability and vulnerability of the self and the body, see also Taylor
(1996) and Vilaça (2005).
8 In her investigation of Mongolian games, Swancutt (2007, p. 240) points out that
shifts in perspective bring about long-term changes in personhood. Addition-
ally, Santo (2012) analyses spirit mediumship in Cuba as the mutual constitution
of self and spirit, which implies the development of a particular kind of self.
9 Būta worship at the village level is characterised by relatively systematic training
and ritual processes similar to those of other theatrical performances in India
(e.g. Frasca 1990; de Bruin 2006).
10 This ability of the būta medium can be understood through Lienhardt’s (1961,
pp. 151) notion of ‘passiones’ (see also Kramer 1993, p. 58; Lambek 1993, p. 312;
Ishii 2012).
11 In the būta ritual, the deity incarnated in the medium calls out the names of the
16 guttus according to their rank.
12 Ākarṣaṇɛ and āvēśa mean spirits’ ‘attraction’ and ‘possession’, respectively
(Upadhyaya 1988–1997, pp. 219, 277). Possession by būtas is variously described
such as jōga (ecstasy), darṣana (trembling owing to spirit possession), and būta
pattuṇḍu (‘the būta caught …’) (see Claus 1984; Smith 2006, p. 138).
13 In the nēma, the mukkāldi and the Pambada dancer-medium are usually pos-
sessed by turns.
14 Regarding the transformation of perspective, Blankenburg (1991) points out the
importance of one’s ability to play with the various perspectives that one hap-
pens to be given. See also Sakabe (1999) and Ishii (2013).
Part Two

Social transformations
and the emergence
of a new umwelt
8 Būta’s agency in conflicts over
the village shrine

In Part One, we examined various aspects of būta worship in Perar, such as

the characteristics of būta worship related to land, nature, and the social
composition of the village; the ritual practices based on the kaṭṭụ; and the
experiences of each person involved in the ritual. It was necessary to ex-
amine these issues first in order to understand the būta worship that forms
a part of the umwelt for the villagers, as linked inseparably with land and
nature, houses and their ranks, people’s lives and roles, and the myths and
local history of the area.
Needless to say, however, būta worship in Perar has been involved in
much wider social and political contexts and has undergone numerous his-
torical transformations. In Part Two, I will investigate issues such as the
advent of the modern judiciary and administration, as well as the expansion
of massive development projects, which have caused drastic changes in vil-
lage communities. Focusing on the relationship between people and deities,
I will examine various practices of the people who live in the midst of entan-
glements and conflicts between customary orders, systems, and śakti on one
hand, and novel orders, systems, and power on the other.
In this chapter, I will examine the transformation of būta worship, focus-
ing on the development of the modern judiciary and administration as well
as their effects on villagers’ lives. Through this investigation, I attempt to
show the significance of the deities’ agency, not only in rituals but also in the
wider social and political context.
As we have seen, būta worship in Perar is based on a hierarchical system
consisting of the 16 guttus and the ritual servants, and every role and detail
of the rituals is strictly determined by the kaṭṭụ. At the same time, whether
rights and honours in reward for ritual services can be granted to a particular
person or family depends on the deities’ approval. Therefore, while būta wor-
ship is thoroughly structured by customary law and systems, the entirety of
the custom and people’s rights and ranks is based on ritual practices, the core
of which is formed by direct interaction between people and deities.
In addition to customary law and systems, modern law and adminis-
tration are important factors concerning rights and rulings in būta wor-
ship. Villagers’ rights and duties in būta worship have been determined by
110 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
customary law, systems, and ritual practices, but at the same time, they have
been formed and reformed by modern law and administration since colonial
times.
As we will see in this chapter, the villagers participating in the būta rituals
in Perar have responded to the modern judiciary and administration, which
have promoted the regulation of religious institutions. In their endeavours
to deal with the new conditions, some people have attempted to use mod-
ern law and systems to increase their own rights and interests regarding
the management of the village būta shrine. The heads of the higher-ranked
guttu houses, who were traditionally in charge of būta worship in the village
but have confronted these new demands, have also felt pressured into ap-
pealing for their shrine rights in conformity with modern law and systems.
At the same time, people frequently turn back to the realm of traditional
ritual practices. These are governed by the deities’ sovereign agency, which
emerges through possession and oracles. Through the mutual communica-
tion of people and deities in the ritual, the relations among people regulated
by modern law are again converted into those arranged by the customary
law authorised by būtas’ divine agency.
In this chapter, I will investigate the practices of people who need the
power of the būtas at the core of rituals, but also must engage with modern
law and systems. Through this investigation, I will show how modern law
and customary law encounter each other regarding religious practice and
become entangled despite having different origins and histories and repre-
senting different logics and values. I will also describe the endeavours of the
people, who are in between the diverse orders of the courts and the deities, to
reorganise their social relations regarding būta worship. First, I will outline
the previous studies on the institutional transformations of Hindu temples
in South India to understand the situation in the būta shrine. Next, referring
to Gell (1998), I will highlight the importance and actuality of the deities’
agency in the context of the modernisation of, and institutional changes
in, religious institutions, which is rarely discussed in the previous studies.
Lastly, I will closely examine two cases of disputes over the village būta
shrine in Perar, focusing on the relations and mutual effects between ­legal
disputes and ritual practices. The first case is a lawsuit in the early 1930s
dealing with the trusteeship of the village būta shrine. The second case is
an ongoing dispute since the beginning of the 2000s caused by a movement
in Perar that has aimed to create a legal subject of shrine management by
organising a committee.

Modern administration of religious institutions

in South India
Anthropologists studying Hindu temples in South India have focused on the
institutional changes in the temples caused by bureaucratic centralisation
under colonial rule. From the 1970s to the 1980s, a number of important
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 111
studies on the rise of colonial power, the decline of traditional kingship,
and the transformation of Hindu temples were published.1 These studies on
the relations of Hindu temples and kingships, the colonial government, and
the modern nation state provide an important reference point for consider-
ing the transformation of the būta shrine as a religious institution in South
­Kanara. At the same time, by examining the relation between customary law
and modern law in concrete practices in the būta rituals, it becomes possible
to reconsider the perspective of previous studies that tend to d ­ isregard the
agency of deities, an agency that influences not only ritual proceedings but
also judicial procedures. Focusing on Appadurai (1981), I will next ­provide
an overview of the studies on Hindu temples in South India.
Appadurai described the transformation of the Śrī Pārtasārati Svāmi tem-
ple in Madras city, Tamil Nadu, in reference to social and political changes
from the fourteenth to the twentieth century. The foci of his study were the
relationships between kings, sects, and temples in the pre-colonial period,
and institutional changes and conflicts caused by the advent of colonial
power after 1700. First, Appadurai pointed out the importance of the deity
as the paradigmatic sovereign in the Hindu temple in pre-colonial South
India. As discussed in Chapter 6, he focused on the role of the deity as a
very special person, who should be placed in the centre of the transactional
network. According to Appadurai, it was the process of redistribution in
the temple that enabled the deity to be the paradigmatic sovereign; the deity
received offerings from devotees, and in return granted them honours along
with various rights and authority. Through mutual exchange with the de-
ity, people were involved in the transactional network centred on the deity
­(Appadurai 1981, pp. 20–37).
Based on the exchange of offerings and honours, the deity thus reigned
over the people. At the same time, because it was made of stone, the deity
could not really arbitrate or adjudicate conflicts among devotees concerning
shares and rights. Therefore, the king, who was the greatest endower to the
temple and also shared in the paradigmatic royalty, fulfilled the function of
arbitrating conflicts and protecting the temple. The role of the king in regard
to the temple, however, was not legislative but administrative (Appadurai
1981, pp. 50–51, 214; see also Appadurai & Breckenridge 1976, pp. 206–207).
This delicate system was greatly altered with the introduction of British
rule. In accordance with the development of a centralised bureaucracy, the
British gradually expanded their day-to-day involvement with temples but
grew reluctant to resolve temple disputes. Disputes concerning the temple
were regarded as the object of judicial trials, and the institutional separation
of the executive and the judiciary created ambiguities in the arbitration of
temple disputes. The temple and the Anglo-Indian judiciary grew entan-
gled, and trials based on modern law provoked new conflicts over shares
and rights in the temple (Appadurai 1981, pp. 109–110, 215).
The outline of the historical transformation of Hindu temples described
by Appadurai, i.e. the close relationship between temples and kings in the
112 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
pre-colonial period, and the decline of kingship and institutional changes in
temples in accordance with the advent of the modern bureaucracy and ju-
diciary, is broadly shared in most studies on Hindu temples in South India.
For instance, Fuller (1984, pp. 104–109), who examined the transformation
of the role and status of Brahman priests in a Hindu temple in Tamil Nadu,
called the indirect exchange relationship between kings, priests, and deities
a ‘triangular scheme’ and pointed out the importance of this relationship
for sustaining the traditional kingship and temple. He argued that this cycle
of exchange was then destroyed under British rule because the secular state
could not undertake the role of the traditional king in relation to the de-
ity.2 Likewise, Dirks (1987), who investigated the historical vicissitudes of a
kingdom called Pudukkottai located in Tamil Nadu, described that the pen-
etration of the bureaucratic regime from the nineteenth century onwards
hollowed out the traditional kingship and provoked new conflicts over hon-
ours given in temples. According to Dirks, people came to use new forms of
discourse and definitions based on administrative ideas and modern law to
mediate conflicts over temple honours, whereas these used to be arbitrated
by kings. This led to the reinforcement of the bureaucratic regime as well
as the commoditisation of honours and the commercialisation of worship
(1987, pp. 358–383).
As seen above, previous studies presume a certain historical transforma-
tion of South Indian temples, from the rule of kings and deities to control by
the modern state and law. However, referring to Gell (1998), I will ­examine
the relationship between people and deities by focusing on their mutual
­exchange and point out the actuality and effect of the deities’ agency, which
has been disregarded by most previous studies.

Transactional networks and the deity as a ‘sovereign person’

Previous studies on Hindu temples in South India have described how in
the nineteenth century, in accordance with the advent of the modern judi-
ciary and administration, traditional kingship declined and temples came
under the control of the modern state and law. This transformation pro-
cess of Hindu temples is broadly similar to the transformation that the būta
shrine has undertaken as a religious institution in South India. As we will
see later, the rise of modern administration caused new conflicts over shrine
management, and consequently the būta shrine has inevitably undergone
institutional transformation.
When we closely investigate the practices of būta worship, however, it is
clear that we cannot presume a unilateral transition from the rule of kings
and deities to control by the modern state and law. As we will see in this
chapter, the people participating in būta worship are certainly under the
control of the modern state and law, and moreover, they practically sup-
port this control by responding to, and making use of, the modern judiciary
and administration. At the same time, by communicating with deities and
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 113
consulting oracles, people strive to comprehend and act in conformity with
the deities’ agency, which directs the state of affairs in the realm of jōga.
Under these circumstances, people’s legal rights and duties—determined
by modern law and administration—and their customary rights and duties
(adikāra)—based on their actual interactions with deities—are variably in
conflict, overlapping, and transposed. Since the colonial era, būta worship
in South Kanara has been conducted in situations in which the power of the
modern judicial and administrative systems and deities’ agency have been
entangled, and thus the rules and systems regarding ritual practices and
shrine management have been duplicated. Regarding these issues, I will re-
consider the transactional network between deities and devotees in Hindu
temples before considering concrete cases.
As seen in the previous section, Appadurai illustrated how in a p
­ re-colonial
South Indian Hindu temple, the deity reigned over the people through a
mutual exchange relationship with devotees. At the same time, because the
deity could not arbitrate disputes, the authority of the deity was comple-
mented by the power of the king, who arbitrated conflicts and protected the
temple. In accordance with the rise of the colonial power and the hollowing
out of traditional kingship, disputes over honours and rights in the temple
came to be judged by modern law, and the temple fell under the control of
the modern state and law.
When discussing the Hindu temple in the pre-colonial period, ­Appadurai
emphasised the importance of the deity as a special person and the im-
portance of the transactional network between the deity and devotees.3
Strangely, however, in his description of the institutional transformation of
the temple in the colonial era, the deity as a special person disappeared.
There may be two reasons for this absence: first, Appadurai described the
transformation of, and disputes over, temples in the colonial era primarily
based on court records. Since he depended on records written in the termi-
nology and logic of modern law, perhaps he overlooked the concrete rela-
tionship between the deity and devotees. Second, while Appadurai focused
on the social personhood of the deity as a prerequisite for establishing the
ritual transaction that supported the centrality of the temple, he did not
consider the possibility that the deity could actually manifest its agency to-
wards people in cases of dispute. Based on his disregard of the deity’s agency,
Appadurai could conclude that the temple was fundamentally transformed
by the decline of the king and fell under the control of the modern state and
law. When we reconsider, however, how the deity as a special person is not
only a prerequisite for the ritual exchange in the temple but also something
which emerges again and again through the interactions between the deity
and devotees, we become aware of the possibility that the deity actually ex-
ercises agency in the chain of gift-exchange.
Regarding this issue, Gell (1998), who investigated the agency of nonhu-
mans such as artefacts and deities in social relations, offers an important
perspective. Though he studied the agency of idols and deities through
114 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
many cases, here I will introduce only two. The first example is the r­ eligious
practice in ancient Tahiti. Based on Babadzan (1993), Gell examined the
­exchange relationship between the priests, hunters, and the ‘hau of the for-
est’, or the principle of the productivity of the forest. The exchange of these
three participants forms a cycle: the priests make offerings to the hau of the
forest, the hau of the forest responds by providing the hunters with birds
to capture, and a portion of these birds must be returned to the priests.
­According to Gell, in this exchange process, the forest is considered to be
passive in relation to the priests, who are the prime movers. It does not
mean, however, that the forest has no intrinsic agency at all. The agency of
the forest, that is its potential productivity, has simply been co-opted by the
agency of the priests (Gell 1998, pp. 106–109).
The exchange relationship between the priests, hunters, and the hau of
the forest is similar to the triangular scheme of the priests, kings, and dei-
ties in Hindu temples, as described by Appadurai and Fuller.4 Likewise, a
similar structure can be observed in the exchange relationship in the būta
ritual, where the priests, the heads of the 16 guttus, and būtas act as the
main participants. In Gell’s argument, it is important that the agency of
the hau of the forest is manifested towards humans through the cyclic ex-
change and distribution of the fertility of the forest. If we extend this idea
to the g­ ift-exchange in a Hindu temple, the deity who is the centre of the
­transaction of offerings and honours is considered not just to be a special
person as the prerequisite for the exchange relation, but rather to become the
social actor who manifests agency through the ritual transaction.
Next, based on Eck (1998 [1981]), Gell focused on the exchange relation-
ship between devotees and images of Hindu deities through eye contact.
According to Gell, by looking into the eyes of the deity, a devotee obtains
darshan (Skt. darśana), a particular type of blessing from the deity conveyed
through the eyes.5 Darshan is a gift, or a mode of divine agency, and the
worshipper is the patient who receives it. At the same time, s/he is also an
agent who initiates the transitive action of ‘taking’ it (darshan lena) from the
deity. Through the mutual relationship of looking and being seen, the deity
and the worshipper each come to be both agent and patient in relation to the
other (1998, pp. 116–120).6
Gell’s argument shows that, through the mutual exchange between deity
and devotee, both become social actors in a transactional network, and at
the same time, the agency of each actor is evoked. According to Gell, even
if it is a statue or a painting, the deity is able to manifest its agency in the
transactional network. From this viewpoint, the transactional network in a
Hindu temple is considered to be not simply formed on the assumption that
the deity is the supreme sovereign; rather, it is the dynamism of the trans-
actional network through which the agency of the deity comes to be mani-
fested and actualised. Therefore, it is considered that as long as the ritual is
performed, the deity’s agency continues to manifest itself and affect the pro-
cess of exchange and redistribution, even though the power of the king is no
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 115
7
longer and instead government officials are involved. Gell mainly focuses
on the agency of idols and artefacts, but in the case of spirit possession in
which the deity manifests itself in the body of a medium, the deity’s agency
can be perceived far more obviously and distinctively by the devotees.
Based on the theoretical viewpoints examined above, I will next ­investigate
the people’s struggles in the midst of entanglements of, and conflicts be-
tween, customary law and modern law, and those of and between the deities’
agency and the power of the courts.

Disputes over the trusteeship of the village būta shrine

in the 1930s
In this section, I will examine a lawsuit in the early 1930s regarding the
trusteeship of the village būta shrine in Perar, which was disputed between
the higher-ranked guttu families and the then asrāṇṇa. Before considering
this case, I will provide a brief overview of the legislation on religious insti-
tutions in South India before the 1930s.
The Madras Endowments and Escheats Regulation, 1817 (Regulation VII
of 1817) was the first legislation on religious institutions in Madras and was
superseded by the Religious Endowments Act of 1863 (Act XX of 1863). In
1926, the Hindu Religious Endowments Board (henceforth the HRE Board)
was formed and the Madras Hindu Religious Endowments Act (Madras
Act II of 1927, henceforth the HRE Act) was passed by the Madras Legisla-
tive Council. Through the foundation of the HRE Board and the HRE Act,
the state enhanced its administrative power over local temples and gradu-
ally undermined the autonomy and traditional authority of local temples
(Presler 1987, pp. 15–35). Under these circumstances, the trusteeship of local
religious institutions became a common subject of competition and dispute
(Appadurai 1981, pp. 52–53; Dirks 1987).
As we have seen, the village būta shrine in Perar consists of the māḍa for
Arasu and the cāvaḍi for Balavāṇḍi, and the special sanctuary or guṇḍa for
Bramma. The daily worship and rituals for Bramma are only conducted by
an asrāṇṇa, a Brahman priest who is hired by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu for this
purpose.
However, in 1928, L. Udupa, who was then the asrāṇṇa of the village
būta shrine in Perar, filed a suit in the district court against the then head
of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu ‘for delivery of the properties appertaining to the
Padu Perar institution’ (Original Suit [O. S.] No. 26 of 1932: 6).8 This case
was contested before the subordinate judge of South Kanara in 1932, with
L. Udupa as the plaintiff and the six main members of both the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
and Brāṇabeṭṭu guttus as the defendants. There were three main points of
contention in the suit: first, which religious institution in Perar could be iden-
tified as the one over which the asrāṇṇa insisted on his trusteeship; second,
who had received the allowance (tastikụ) granted by the government to the
religious institution in question; and third, whether the institution in question
116 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
was a ‘hereditary temple’ that could be ‘excepted’ from the provisions of the
HRE Act.9 According to the court record, the Padu Perar institution in ques-
tion was registered in Mangalore taluk in 1875 as ‘Perar Shastavu Brahma
Bhoota’ (O. S. No. 26 of 1932: 9). An asrāṇṇa named A. Shibaraya was the
then trustee (moktēsare) of the institution and he had an allowance of nine ru-
pees from the government. Since this precedent, the person who became the
asrāṇṇa received the institution’s allowance. In addition, L. Udupa had been
appointed by the Mangalore Circle Temple Committee (later replaced by the
South Kanara District Temple Committee), which had been constituted un-
der the HRE Act, as a trustee of an institution in Padu Perar described as
‘Shastavu Brahma Balavandi’. Based on these facts, L. Udupa insisted on
his trusteeship of the village būta shrine, which he identified as ‘Shastavu
Brahma Balavandi Pilichamundi Daivastanam’ of Padu Perar.
On the other hand, the guttu members insisted that the Padu Perar in-
stitution was known not as ‘Shastavu Brahma Balavandi Pilichamundi
Daivastanam’, but as ‘Kinni Majalu Ishta Devata Balavandi Pilichamundi
Daivastanam’, whose management was traditionally vested in the heredi-
tary rights of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu and Brāṇabeṭṭu guttus. They also insisted that
the institution was a ‘hereditary temple’ exempt from the provisions of the
HRE Act; therefore, neither the Mangalore Circle Temple Committee nor
the South Kanara District Temple Committee had jurisdiction over it.
After a number of hearings and detailed investigations into exhibits from
both the plaintiff and defendants, the court finally settled the suit in Septem-
ber 1933. Among the total of 57 exhibits, the one the judge regarded as the
most decisive was a report submitted to the Temple Committee in J­ anuary
1930 by A. S. Pai and P. V. Rao, both advocates of the court and members
of the Temple Committee. According to the report, they inspected the Padu
Perar institution in question in the presence of the plaintiff (L. Udupa) and
first defendant (J. Naik) and held an enquiry. B. G. Avargal, the then Subor-
dinate Judge of South Kanara, stated the following about this report in the
court record:

They observed in their report that the form and appearance of the
building in which the idol of Brahma was kept led them to conclude that
the building was a temple and not a Daivastanam [būta shrine] but that
the ‘mada’ of Ishta Devate [another name of Arasu] and the ‘chavadi’ of
Balavandi within the same enclosure had the appearance of Daivastan-
ams … They have further observed as a result of their inspection and
enquiry that the institution for which the Plaintiff was appointed trus-
tee by the Mangalore Circle Temple Committee and for which tasdik
was paid by Government is the one in Padu Perar, that the principal de-
ity therein is Brahma and that the 3 daivas, viz., Ishta Devata, Balavandi
and Pilichamundi, are subsidiary deities.
(O. S. No. 26 of 1932: 7–8 [emphasis mine, to illustrate the hierarchy of
the deities presumed by the judges])
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 117
Based on the observations of two influential advocates, the judge concluded
that the institution for which L. Udupa was appointed as a trustee was
identified as the Padu Perar institution (that is, the village būta shrine), in
which Bramma was the presiding deity and the other būtas were attendant
deities. The judge also pointed out that the Padu Perar institution was not
an ‘excepted temple’, since it had at least one office of trustee that was not
hereditary (O. S. No. 26 of 1932: 19–21). The judge thus approved the Temple
Committee’s right to exercise jurisdiction over the institution and therefore
decided that its appointment of L. Udupa as a trustee was valid.
At the same time, based on documents of land purchase in the name of
the village būta shrine, the judge authorised that the representatives of the
two guttu houses had undertaken the management of the shrine property. As
already seen, the land owned by the village būta shrine was managed by the
heads of the first and second guttu families, and rewards for ritual servants
had been paid in products of the land. The documents about land purchase
with the joint signatures of the then heads of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu and Brāṇabeṭṭu
guttus were recognised as proof of their hereditary trusteeship of the prop-
erty of the village būta shrine. Therefore, while the judge approved the offi-
cial trusteeship of the asrāṇṇa appointed by the Temple Committee, he also
approved the hereditary trusteeship of the first and second guttu houses. In
conclusion, the judge gave the decision that the plaintiff and the defendants
should be co-trustees of the property of the Padu Perar institution.10
In this judgement, Bramma was identified as a quasi-Hindu god enshrined
in a ‘temple’ and regarded as superior to the other būtas. In the same man-
ner, the judgement guaranteed the status of the asrāṇṇa as the priest for the
main deity and also the trustee of the institution. This judgement was appar-
ently influenced by the preconceptions of the judge and two advocates, who
presumed the supremacy of Sanskritic deities.
As we have seen, Bramma has ambivalent characteristics both in the pāḍ-
dana and in worship at the village būta shrine, for he is treated as a local as
well as a Sanskritic deity. In conjunction with legal discourse, the Sanskritic
aspect of Bramma became evidence of his supremacy and the existence of
Brahmanical caste hierarchy in the village būta shrine. As a result, at least
at the level of legal discourse, the village būta shrine in Perar became recog-
nised as an institution where a quasi-Hindu god is the supreme deity and a
Brahman priest occupies a crucial status.
The modern judicature, which presumed the supremacy of Hindu gods
and focused only on ‘objective facts’ such as the structure of the village būta
shrine and the appointment of a trustee by the Temple Committee, could
comprehend neither the mutual interactions between the būtas and devotees
nor the centrality of the būtas embodying the circulation of wild śakti. In
this judgement, the royal būtas were marginalised as subsidiary deities to
Bramma. At the same time, the roles of the guttu houses, which had been
pivotal in both ritual practice and shrine management, were disregarded,
except regarding their management of shrine property.
118 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
As seen above, through the formulation and penetration of modern law
and administration from the end of the nineteenth century to the begin-
ning of the twentieth century, similar to most religious institutions in South
­India, the būta shrine in Perar was also involved in rulings by the modern
state and law. The court record examined in this section, however, suggests
that while successive asrāṇṇas strived to expand their rights in the village
būta shrine by using new laws and systems, the heads of the higher-ranked
guttus had rather negative attitudes towards modern law and systems.
For instance, in the trial in 1932, the heads of the first and second guttus
insisted that the village būta shrine was a private, hereditary temple exempt
from the provisions of the HRE Act. The heads of the guttus probably re-
sented the bureaucratic administration of the shrine, so they intended to
keep their distance from it. At the same time, their negative attitude to mod-
ern law and administration also seemed to be based on their principle of
putting the highest priority on the kaṭṭụ and būtas’ oracles, which formed
the basis of social relations in the village and linked villagers to the wild
śakti. For the heads of the guttus, who had assumed charge of the village
būta shrine based on ritual practice and observance of the kaṭṭụ, the adikāra
granted by the deities was the matter of highest priority. Therefore, at first,
they did not give much importance to rights and allowances granted by the
state. Only when their hereditary trusteeship was endangered by the asrāṇṇa
who tried to expand his rights and interests through the authority of modern
law, did the heads of the guttus begin to appeal for their rights in terms of
modern law.
As we will soon see, the heads of the guttus found themselves in a similar
predicament again about 70 years later regarding shrine management and
strived to solve the difficulty in between the power of modern law and the
agency of deities.

The foundation of a management committee and the crisis of

traditional rights
I will next investigate people’s endeavours in between customary law and
modern law, focusing on the ongoing conflict over the management of the
village būta shrine. First, I will outline the rise of a new faction claiming
rights to shrine management as well as the response of the higher-ranked
guttu houses, focusing on their relation to modern law.
A series of incidents began in 2000 with the advent of a man who pre-
sented himself as a relative of the third guttu family in Mudu Perar. His
name was N. Shetty, a wealthy restaurateur living in Mangaluru city. He ex-
plained to villagers that he was told by an astrologer that his ancestors had
originated from the third guttu family and that he therefore came to Perar
for the purpose of contributing to his ancestors’ land. He soon started var-
ious activities using his abundant funds. First, he reconstructed the shrines
of Nāga and būta on the estate of the third guttu house. He also asked two
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 119
folklorists to collect the oral epics in Perar and published a pamphlet. More-
over, in 2001, he established a committee called Sēvā Samiti (service com-
mittee) for organising būta rituals in Perar. In this process, N. Shetty invited
about 80 villagers to the committee and organised them. The committee be-
gan to gradually take charge of the preparation of the nēma and also of the
administrative work regarding the village būta shrine, tasks conventionally
undertaken by the members of the first and second guttu families.
At first, the members of the committee and the heads of the first and sec-
ond guttus maintained a good relationship. When establishing the commit-
tee, N. Shetty persuaded these guttu heads by insisting that the aim of the
committee was only the development of the village būta shrine. Gangādara
Rai, who was the head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and served as the gaḍipat-
inārụ at the village būta shrine, agreed to the committee’s establishment,
and N. Shetty asked him to be the committee’s honorary president. Soon
afterwards, however, the situation took a turn for the worse for the guttu
families. In early 2002, the asrāṇṇa who had taken charge of donations
to the shrine in cooperation with the gaḍipatinārụ was discharged after a
quarrel with the committee members, and the committee came to hold the
key to the safe and started to manage the finances of the shrine directly.
The discharged asrāṇṇa was called B. Udupa, a descendant of the L. Udupa
who had filed the 1928 suit described in the previous section. This Brahman
family had long held the office of asrāṇṇa in Perar. After B. Udupa left the
village būta shrine, N. Shetty brought a young Brahman priest from another
village and placed him in the position of asrāṇṇa.
Triggered by this incident, discord between the committee and the first
and second guttus soon came to the fore. The head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
appealed to the Deputy Commissioner of the Dakshina Kannada district
that their family held hereditary trusteeship of the village būta shrine and
petitioned for their right to shrine management. The Deputy Commis-
sioner, however, turned down this petition and instead granted the right
to N. Shetty, who was the representative of the service committee in Perar.
Dissatisfied with this decision, Gangādara Rai and other core members of
the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu appealed to the Commissioner for Hindu Religious
Institutions and Charitable Endowments in Bangalore, who was superior to
the Deputy Commissioner.11 Meanwhile, N. Shetty formed a new manage-
ment committee, which was prescribed in the Hindu Religious Institutions
and Charitable Endowments Act, 1997 (Karnataka Act No. 33 of 2001), and
again appealed to the Deputy Commissioner for the committee’s right to
manage the shrine in Perar. This case was carried into the High Court of
Karnataka, and as of 2015, it was still the subject of litigation.
In this series of disputes, it is interesting how the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu fam-
ily represented by Gangādara Rai and the committee led by N. Shetty have
constructed their respective claims. Referring to the court records kept in
the Deputy Commissioner’s Office (Records of Disputes on Law CR No.
7/2002–2003),12 we can grasp the primary logic of each side. For instance,
120 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
in the statement submitted in 2003 by the advocate of Gangādara Rai to the
Commissioner for Hindu Religious Institutions and Charitable Endowments,
the advocate denounced the Deputy Commissioner for appointing N. Shetty
as the fit person to manage the shrine, and appealed the decision as follows:

The 6th respondent [N. Shetty] intends to usurp the Trusteeship of

the Daivasthana [the village būta shrine] and interfere with the day to
day management of Daivasthana. In fact the overall management of
Daivasthana is being looked after by the appellant [Gangādara Rai] as
one of the joint hereditary trustees … The 1st respondent [the Deputy
Commissioner] by order dated 27-4-2002 appointed the 6th respondent
as the fit person … The 1st respondent has no jurisdiction to appoint
the fit person or frame a scheme when there are hereditary trustees …
The order under challenge is arbitrary and illegal … Any activities un-
dertaken by the Samithi [committee] were under the guidance of the
appellant and Sadashiva Shetty [the head of the second guttu family] as
heads of the Committee. The appellant had hardly dreamt then that the
very Samithi created by him would prove self-destructive and threaten
the very position of the appellant as trustees. The appellant had hardly
realized then that he was being tricked and deceived.
(Records of Disputes on Law CR No. 7/2002–2003: 176–178)

Meanwhile, in the statement submitted in 2002 to the Deputy Commis-

sioner, the advocate of N. Shetty stated that the village būta shrine in Perar
was a public religious institution in which Bramma was the presiding deity
and accused the conventional managers of the shrine of negligence:

There has been no declaration or any order to the knowledge of the pe-
titioners [N. Shetty and others], as contemplated under the provisions of
Madras HR & CE [Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments] Act13
regarding the alleged right of hereditary trusteeship of the respondent
[Gangādara Rai] … The respondent did not account for any of the in-
come. He had not paid the contribution payable by the Daivasthana,
and the accounts were not audited for several years. The respondent had
not shown any interest in the betterment, development, improvement or
maintenance of the institution.
(Records of Disputes on Law CR No. 7/2002–2003: 183)

In addition, the advocate enumerated the achievements of the committee,

such as the improvement of the facilities of the shrine and the properness of
the management, and argued for the necessity of framing a scheme for the
better management of the village shrine:

Such rules or regulations are very much necessary to define the pow-
ers, duties, rights and responsibilities of the persons in management.
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 121
Accountability can be imported to the management only by such a
Scheme. It is a common well accepted principle that when power of
administration and management are given, the accountability and re-
sponsibility has to be incorporated with the powers so that there will be
scope for exercising control.
(Records of Disputes on Law CR No. 7/2002–2003: 186)

As seen in these statements, throughout these disputes, the members of the

Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu consistently insisted on the authenticity of their heredi-
tary trusteeship and criticised the committee for taking over their rights in
the village būta shrine. Meanwhile, the members of the committee criticised
the slipshod management of the guttu members and insisted that the com-
mittee could improve the shrine by managing its property more effectively.
There is an obvious contrast in the two sides’ statements regarding what is
of most importance for shrine management: while the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
insisted on the priority of hereditary and traditional rights and duties, the
committee based their claims on the rationalisation of management and the
establishment of discipline. It is also notable that both sides hired advocates
and constructed their opinions according to the logic and terminology of
modern law.
As already seen, while the traditional rights and duties (adikāra) of the
guttu houses are determined by the kaṭṭụ, they are actualised only through
interaction with, and approval by, the deities in rituals. Here, the adikāra
are based on an agreement between the deities and the heads of the guttu
houses, an agreement believed to extend back to ancient times; and for these
heads, to conduct a ritual according to the kaṭṭụ means to accomplish their
duty and to exercise their rights in būta worship. Needless to say, in the
realm of customary law and ritual practice, the supreme authority which
approves or disapproves of people’s rights regarding būta worship has been
vested in the deities.
Meanwhile, in the lawsuit regarding shrine management rights, the su-
preme authority is vested in legal procedures and court orders, and the au-
thority and effectiveness of the deities’ orders are disregarded from the start.
The points of contention in the court are neither the ancient agreement with
the deities based on pāḍdana nor the appointment of the gaḍipatinārụ by the
deity, but the management and administration of the shrine in relation to
government offices and the matter of who is appropriate for trusteeship in
terms of modern law.
The adikāra of the higher-ranked guttu houses, which can be called ‘he-
reditary trusteeship’ in the terminology of modern law, is based on the de-
tailed kaṭṭụ, pāḍdana, and mutual interaction with deities, and it is very
difficult to legitimate their factual grounding. The actors who compete with
the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu for trusteeship or management rights of the village
būta shrine, such as the asrāṇṇa and N. Shetty, neither appear in the pāḍ-
dana nor have been approved by the deities. Simply by being registered as
122 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the trustee with the government and approved by its jurisdiction, however,
they can gain an advantage over the guttu families. Therefore, the mem-
bers of the higher-ranked guttus involved in the dispute recognised that they
should also claim their rights in the logic recognised by the judiciary.
As seen in Chapter 5, in a ritual in the village būta shrine, the heads of the
16 guttus pleaded with the deities for their blessing and authorisation, and at
the same time, they performatively consented to the supremacy of the deities
by obeying their orders. For the heads of the guttus, this is the essential pro-
cedure for maintaining their relationship with the realm of the wild through
interactions with the deities manifested in spirit possession. In the process
of the lawsuits and court trials, however, the guttu families seem to be long-
ing also for the approval of the judiciary and to be obeying the authority
of modern law. Rights and duties regarding the būta worship, which the
members of the guttus and ritual servants must hold, seem to have changed
in meaning from the mythical adikāra to trusteeship confirmed by modern
law. If so, in the series of disputes, does the practice of people competing for
judicial approval indicate a transition from customary law to modern law,
from divine oracle to court order, and from adikāra to legal rights? Next, I
will consider these issues by focusing on the nēma in 2009.

A conflict in the nēma and the judgement of the deity

As of March 2009, in the series of disputes between the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
and the management committee, the committee held the advantage, and the
preparation of the nēma was carried out by the members of the committee.
As we will see in this section, however, the nēma, which seemed to be pro-
ceeding smoothly under the command of the committee, fell into confu-
sion due to the fierce anger of Balavāṇḍi incarnated in the mukkāldi. In the
judgement ritual (vākụ piripuni) in the final part of the nēma, the oracles of
the būtas restored some of the customary rights of the gaḍipatinārụ which
had been taken over by the committee. I will summarise this process below.
A short while after 11 o’clock on the night before the nēma, the ritual which
should have started an hour before had still not yet started, due to the ab-
sence of the mukkāldi. Devotees were seated on the cloister of the precinct of
the village būta shrine waiting for the ritual to begin. It was almost midnight
when the mukkāldi, possessed by Balavāṇḍi (hereafter, ­Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi)
and accompanied by the heads of the guttu houses, appeared in the pre-
cinct. Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi had covered his head with a white turban and
was trembling all over and occasionally groaning. He rushed at one of the
guttu heads and knocked him down, so then others frantically tried to re-
strain the deity. Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi sat on a seat on the cloister and a crowd
surrounded him. They watched his movements with bated breath. The tense
silence persisted for some time. S ­ uddenly, ­Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi jumped up
from his seat and rushed forwards, ­scattering the crowd around him. He
dashed towards the treasure house, and the heads of the guttus hurried to
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 123
follow him. The nēma, which was held from 10 to 13 March 2009, thus had
a very turbulent start.
Prior to this extraordinary expression of anger of Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi,
there were several incidents in the conflict between the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
and the committee. It began with an incident regarding invitations to the
nēma. A few weeks before the nēma, several members of the first and sec-
ond guttu families made invitations and delivered them to the main houses
in the village. The members of the committee responded by publishing an
article in a local newspaper accusing the guttu families of ‘illegally’ sending
invitations as if they were the organisers of the nēma. In the midst of the
tension between the two factions enflamed by this affair, the second inci-
dent happened. Traditionally on the day before the nēma, the members of
the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu with the help of villagers had treated the visitors to
the nēma to lunch in a public hall next to the village būta shrine. This year,
however, the members of the committee refused to give the key to the public
hall to the villagers on the side of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. The quarrel over
the key between the villagers and the committee members quickly escalated,
and finally a police officer from the neighbouring town was called on to set-
tle the quarrel. Hearing of this, Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi flared up and declared
that he would not enter the shrine profaned by the disturbance. On the next
day, N. Shetty, the leader of the committee, apologised to the deity for blas-
pheming the shrine with the matter involving the police, but the anger of
Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi was not assuaged.
The nēma proceeded in this tense atmosphere, and finally it came time
for the ritual of the judgement (vākụ piripuni), which was the most impor-
tant ritual of the last day. This ritual is usually held at Baṇṭakaṁba, which is
about 80 metres far from the village shrine. This time, however, the ritual of
the judgement concerning the conflict between the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the
committee was held in front of the Bramma guṇḍa, in the precinct of the shrine.
Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi, Pilicāmuṇḍi incarnated in Jayānanda ­Pambada, and the
heads of the 16 guttus stood in front of the guṇḍa, and a crowd ­surrounded
them. N. Shetty also stood alongside of the heads of the guttus. The exchange
of anger and entreaty between the deities and the heads of the guttus contin-
ued for several hours. Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi harshly accused the guttu heads
of violating the kaṭṭụ and causing disaster, and the heads of the guttus strived
to placate the deities. After a long time, the ritual finally ended with an oracle
by Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi ordering observance of the kaṭṭụ and reconciliation
between the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the committee:

You should be together. Otherwise, all of you will suffer. We need the
pergaḍe [the head of the first guttu], madyaste [the head of the second
guttu], the sixteen guttus and the villagers.

The heads of the guttus and N. Shetty together held jasmine flowers on a
banana leaf and swore to obey the oracle. The ritual of the judgement ended
124 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
with the oracle and the vow, and at the end of the nēma, ­Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi
and Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi blessed both the heads of the guttus and
N. Shetty by touching their hands with swords. On the next day, the gaḍi-
patinārụ and N. Shetty together opened the safe of the shrine, and according
to the custom before the establishment of the committee, the rewards for the
ritual servants were paid from the hands of the gaḍipatinārụ.
The process of the nēma examined above provides us with a new perspec-
tive from which to understand the relation between būta worship, customary
law, and modern law. As we saw, in the dispute between the higher-ranked
guttus and the committee over the management of the shrine, both factions
appealed to the modern judiciary and administration, and the rights and
position of each party were determined through the logic and terminology
of modern law. Here, not only the authority of the kaṭṭụ, which had formed
the basis of ritual practices, but also the authority of the deities who ap-
proved the adikāra of the devotees was disregarded as being outside the
modern judicial and executive systems.
In the ritual during the nēma, however, the people involved in the law-
suits became subordinate to the authority of, and the order derived from,
the būtas through direct interaction with the deities. By participating in
the exchange relationship with the deities, all the actors concerned in the
event, including the parties to the lawsuits, came to recognise the deities as
the supreme authority in the ritual. Consequently, the relations among the
actors, which had been regulated by modern law, were converted into the
mythological relationship based on the kaṭṭụ and transaction with the dei-
ties. In this relationship, even though the members of the committee could
have gained an advantage over the members of the guttus in the courts, they
came under the authority of the guttus based on an ancient promise with
the deities.
By making their promise to obey the kaṭṭụ and receiving blessings from
the deities, the parties to the lawsuits became involved in the transactional
network in which the deity is the supreme person. While still pursuing rights
through modern law, they also reinforced the adikāra, the mythical rights
and duties authorised by the deities.

The complication of people’s intentions and the

evolution of disputes
As seen in the last section, even while people were engaged in a legal dispute
over shrine management, they were also subordinate to the divine and were
repositioned in the customary transactional network in the būta ritual. The
dispute over the village būta shrine thus transpires simultaneously in two
realms, the court of law and the būta ritual, each manifesting its own values,
logic, and power. In this section, I will investigate the dispute’s transition
between the realms more closely, focusing on the social positions and inten-
tions of each actor concerned. As I will clarify, the transition process should
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 125
be understood neither as a unilateral process of customary law’s gradual
disappearance after the advent of modern law nor as a process of custom-
ary law’s subsumption under modern law and the exclusion of the deities’
agency.
The series of conflicts examined in the previous sections points to how
people have been groping to find a way to deal with the logics, systems, val-
ues, and resources recently introduced into their lives. For instance, as seen
in the legalisation of shrine management and the foundation of the man-
agement committee, new systems based on modern logics such as legality,
rationality, and democracy have spurred people to reform the old system.
At the same time, with the advent of a new actor, N. Shetty, who had built a
fortune in the city in the food service industry and then entered into shrine
management, an unprecedented scale of capital was invested in the shrine,
leading to its new economic value. As we will see below, the new logic and
value have often conflicted with the traditional system in which the heads of
guttus approved by the deities managed būta rituals using local resources,
and this has caused various disputes and complications among the villagers.

The expectation of democratisation and the

development of the shrine
As discussed, a series of issues arose when N. Shetty visited Perar and
proposed financial support for the development of the village būta shrine.
At first, Gangādara Rai, who was in charge of shrine management as the
gaḍipatinārụ, embraced N. Shetty’s plan and agreed with him. Gangādara
Rai expected that he would offer sufficient funds for the renovation and
reconstruction of the institution without changing the existing organisation
and management. Meanwhile, what N. Shetty intended was not only to con-
tribute to the development of the shrine as one of the devotees, but also to
obtain management rights, authority, and honour as the top patron of the
shrine. While persuading the heads of the higher-ranked guttus with his
plan for shrine development, he gained villagers’ support by proposing the
democratisation of shrine management and the regularisation of payments
for ritual servants.
Most of the villagers who came to be members of the committee had orig-
inally worked under the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu for the maintenance of the vil-
lage shrine and preparation for the nēma. Among these villagers, some had
complaints about the shrine management under the first and second guttu
families. Some suspected that core members of the higher-ranked guttus
had embezzled from the shrine endowments instead of distributing them
fairly to the workers. In these circumstances, most villagers approved of N.
Shetty’s proposal that ordinary villagers establish a committee to determine
endowment use and shrine management systems.
The ritual servants’ attitudes about this, however, were not uniform. For
instance, Yatish Pambada and Jayānanda Pambada, the two main būta
126 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
dancers in Perar, illustrate contrasting attitudes towards N. Shetty’s plan:
while Yatish did not openly cooperate with N. Shetty and kept his distance
from him, Jayānanda became close with N. Shetty and gradually came to
be seen by others as being under his influence. It seems that Jayānanda ac-
cepted N. Shetty’s plan because he was dissatisfied with the existing shrine
management under the guttu families, and he expected to improve the sta-
tus of the būta dancers and participate in decision-making concerning the
treatment of ritual servants. Meanwhile, for N. Shetty, getting a leading
Pambada dancer on his side was important for enabling him to intervene
not only in shrine management but also in the ritual practice. As we will
see below, however, Jayānanda, who had been regarded as being on the side
of the newcomer in daily social relations, strongly affirmed the traditional
ways of būta worship when he embodied the deity’s agency in the ritual.

The withdrawal of the guttu family from the shrine and the
dilemma of a būta dancer
As seen in the previous section, in the nēma in 2009, the tension between the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the committee was arbitrated, and the traditional au-
thority of the gaḍipatinārụ was temporarily recovered. N. Shetty, however,
did not leave the shrine but continued to appeal to the Deputy Commis-
sioner for the rights of the committee and to promote ‘reform’ for the shrine.
In November 2012, amid the unceasing tension between the two factions,
the Deputy Commissioner ordered Gangādara Rai to hand over the key of
the treasure house to the management committee. This decision deprived the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu of its hereditary rights to the property of the shrine. In re-
action to this order, the core members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu immediately
gathered at the main hall in the head house to discuss a suitable response.
They also invited an astrologer to divine the future course of action.14 They
received an oracle that the misfortune the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu was suffering
had been caused by the goddess Durgā,15 who had long been forgotten while
dwelling in this house. According to the astrologer, in order to escape their
misfortune, they had to worship the goddess properly in the head house and
appease her anger. After a long discussion, they decided that all the mem-
bers of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family should withdraw from the management
of, and ritual practice in, the village būta shrine, and instead concentrate on
the worship of the goddess and deities in the head house. Gangādara Rai
also declared that unless he could recover his dignity, he would never return
to the shrine.
In February 2013, after this decision, the nēma was held at the village
būta shrine without the members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. In this nēma,
N. Shetty took the place of Gangādara Rai as the chief patron and ­interacted
with the possessed priests and mediums. In the ritual of the judgement,
however, there was an incident of which N. Shetty had never dreamt. While
Jayānanda Pambada was usually thought to be on the side of the committee,
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 127
when he spoke an oracle as Pilicāmuṇḍi in the ritual, he expressed outrage
about the absence of the head of the first guttu and scolded N. Shetty in
front of the devotees. Regarding this incident, a villager who knew of the
close relationship between Jayānanda and N. Shetty said that the oracle
must have really been spoken by the daiva.
We should consider several aspects of why Jayānanda, as the deity
Pilicāmuṇḍi, gave the oracle that supported the traditional kaṭṭụ and or-
dered the reinstatement of the gaḍipatinārụ. As seen in Chapter 7, a būta
medium is overwhelmed by the power of the deity and falls into trance just
for a moment. After that moment, he acts as the deity while maintaining the
dual perspective of the deity and himself. Needless to say, however, the real
oracle is believed not to be the words of the medium, but to be the expression
of the deity’s will. In this case too, it is possible that the būta śakti filling
the body of Jayānanda solely produced the oracle. At the same time, this
incident can also be considered as a result of the entanglement of various
powers, both social and spiritual.
In the ritual, Jayānanda spoke an oracle as Pilicāmuṇḍi, with Balavāṇḍi
incarnated in the mukkāldi. In daily social relations, Jayānanda Pambada
is positioned under the mukkāldi, who belongs to the guttu family. In the
relations among the deities in the village shrine too, compared to Balavāṇḍi,
Pilicāmuṇḍi is regarded as a rather marginal deity. Bālākrishna Shetty, who
plays the role of the mukkāldi, is one of the core members of the fifth guttu
family and has consistently supported the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in the dispute
over shrine management. In addition, in ritual practice, M ­ ukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi
has issued strong orders to devotees regarding the observance and recovery
of the kaṭṭụ, and his words and deeds have gained him respect from the
people as embodying the kaṭṭụ. Under these circumstances, in a ritual in
which hundreds of people follow every move of the medium as the deity, it
was almost impossible for Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi to speak an oracle that
completely contradicted that of Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi. While in daily social
relations he may have joined with N. Shetty and strived to free himself from
the conventional system of worship, in the ritual practice, affected by en-
tangled forces—the wild śakti that enabled him to become the deity, the
power of the mukkāldi as the powerful other, and the power of the people’s
gaze—Jayānanda was forced to act in line with these forces.

The reconstruction of the shrine and confusion in the committee

In 2013, N. Shetty launched the reconstruction of the village būta shrine. To
raise funds for the construction work, he collected 5,000 rupees from each
house and 500,000 rupees from each guttu house in Perar. He announced
a large-scale plan to construct a brand-new shrine complex after demol-
ishing all the existing buildings. The most prominent change in his plan
was to move the Bramma guṇḍa, which had been regarded as the centre of
the village būta shrine, outside the shrine precinct. According to N. Shetty,
128 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the reason why the guṇḍa had to be relocated outside the shrine was that the
deity enshrined in it was not the ‘real’ Bramma. He insisted that an astro-
logical divination revealed that the liṅga enshrined in the guṇḍa was not the
embodiment of Bramma, but that of another deity called Śāstāvu Bramma.
He therefore decided to move the existing statue and the entire guṇḍa out-
side the precinct and to build a new shrine in which a new statue of Bramma
would be enshrined.
The members of the higher-ranked guttus discussed this relocation plan
with reference to the behind-the-scene circumstances and the lawsuit be-
tween L. Udupa and the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in the 1930s. In the lawsuit, as
discussed above, the then asrāṇṇa L. Udupa who was also responsible for
the daily ritual to Bramma asserted his trusteeship in the guṇḍa. Based on
this past event, the guttu members conjectured that the real reason for the
relocation of the guṇḍa was that N. Shetty feared retaliation from B. Udupa,
a descendant of L. Udupa who had been driven out of the shrine by the
committee. In short, if the guṇḍa were located outside the precinct, it would
be easier for N. Shetty to prevent interference from B. Udupa, who might
also demand his rights in the guṇḍa. N. Shetty could then yield to him these
rights only in the building outside the shrine. The guttu members’ conjec-
ture was therefore that the relocation must have been planned to prevent
any future claims on the shrine from B. Udupa.
Meanwhile, as the construction work progressed under N. Shetty’s com-
mand, splits were gradually appearing among the members of the commit-
tee. First, there were pent-up complaints about the compulsory collection of
expensive donations among the villagers, including the committee members.
Second, N. Shetty’s arbitrary management of the committee added to their
antipathy towards him. For instance, he proposed a new rule that would
prohibit the Pūjāri workers from entering the shrine buildings, which as a
matter of course antagonised the Pūjāris. Third, soon after the construction
work began, it was suspended because the workers’ payments were overdue.
Concerning this nonpayment of wages, some of the committee members re-
quested that N. Shetty show the shrine’s account book, but he refused.
Some of the committee members thus became estranged from N. Shetty,
and around the same time, a rumour spread among the villagers that the
newly enshrined statue of Bramma in the village būta shrine was shaking.
This rumour soon led to the increasingly shared apprehension that the new
statue was not appropriate for the village shrine. As we will see next, this
phenomenon of the ‘shaking Bramma’ was a decisive factor in the estrange-
ment of the villagers from N. Shetty, and it encouraged those who aimed to
recover the rights of the guttu families.

The astrological oracle and the return of the guttu family

From the beginning of 2014, the members of the second guttu house as
well as other villagers who anticipated that the committee’s term of service
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 129
would expire in April 2015 often visited the head house of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu and asked for the return of Gangādara Rai. Responding to these per-
sistent requests, the core members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu again organised
an astrological ritual in the head house in September 2014. Through the
ritual, they received an oracle from the astrologer:

It is not necessary for you to return to the village shrine. At present,

however, the villagers are in a predicament. The difficulty was caused
by the deities. The first and second guttu houses are the rulers of the
whole village, and if the villagers have problems, you have to take re-
sponsibility for that. Therefore, you must go back to the shrine. If you
do not take care of the villagers, the whole of your family will be pun-
ished by daiva.

This result was acceptable to the members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu be-
cause it recognised their right and duty to represent and protect the vil-
lagers under the approval of the deities, and encouraged them to return
to the shrine. After some discussion among the core members, it was de-
cided that Gangādara Rai and all the other members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu would return to the shrine in October. Regarding this, however,
one of the core members of the guttu family told me: ‘We cannot make
this decision by ourselves. We should organise an astrological ritual, and
only if we get permission [from the deities], can we go back to the shrine’.
Gangādara Rai also expressed his attitude as follows: ‘If our kuṭuma
[matrilineal joint family] goes back to the shrine, I will also go back. If
the kuṭuma people agree, I will return. However, I would never go back
alone’.
When deciding whether they should go back to the village shrine or not,
the members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu thus left the final decision to the
agency of the deity, which was interpreted through astrology. The words
of Gangādara Rai also indicate that even his decision as the head of the
family depended on the decision of the kuṭuma as a whole. As seen in the
previous section, in the lawsuit over shrine rights, Gangādara Rai took
part in the modern judiciary and appealed for his rights using its logic
and terminology. At the same time, his words and deeds were always in-
fluenced by, and also depended on, the will of the whole family and the
agency of the deities.
It can be pointed out that there is a duality not only in the attitude of
Gangādara Rai, but also in those of the members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.
Namely, while they engage in the dispute in the realm of the modern judici-
ary by using the whole family’s human and material resources, for their final
decision regarding their course of action, they depend on divine oracles and
astrology. As we will see next, the villagers in Perar have shown a similar
duality in their striving to discern a course of action in the conflict and con-
fusion regarding shrine management and ritual practice.
130 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
The cursing goddess, shivering deity, and foundation
of a new committee
Soon after the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family had decided to go back to the village
shrine, a large-scale astrological ritual was held in the village būta shrine for
nine days and nights, from 26 December 2014 to 3 January 2015. Some of the
villagers contributed funds and organised the ritual to consult astrologers
about the background and future of the dispute over the village būta shrine.
In the course of this ritual, one astrologer delivered an oracle that surprised
the participants: a goddess surrounded by rivers on three sides had cursed
N. Shetty. In response, N. Shetty consulted another astrologer in hopes of
contradicting this divination, but he could not receive any oracles that ne-
gated it. After a great deal of discussion and speculation about this oracle
among the participants, they arrived at the conclusion that the goddess in
question must be Durgā, as she was worshipped in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
house surrounded by a river and canals on three sides.
In addition, in this ritual, another oracle was delivered, namely, that the
present asrāṇṇa was not suitable for the village shrine. Receiving this oracle,
some of the villagers made noises about the possibility of the return of B.
Udupa, who had left the shrine as a result of the conflict with the service
committee. They received the following reply from him:

If I go back to the village shrine, it will be when even the shadow of N.

Shetty has disappeared from Perar. Above all, Bramma, which has been
moved outside the shrine, must be brought back.

This reply from B. Udupa aroused discussion among the villagers about the
rights and wrongs regarding the relocation of the Bramma guṇḍa. In the
long discussion, several villagers pointed out that the rumoured phenom-
enon of the new shaking Bramma statue might signify that relocation was
not a good decision.
The ritual did not lead to a consensus among the villagers about how to
solve the problems regarding the village būta shrine. Most villagers, how-
ever, came to take the astrological oracle and the shivering statue as warn-
ings about the unsuitableness of various changes in the village shrine as well
as the inadequacy of N. Shetty’s leadership. As a result, this ritual decided
the estrangement of most of the villagers from N. Shetty, and subsequently
the dispute over the village būta shrine entered a new stage.
On 15 March 2015, about two months after the astrological ritual in the
village būta shrine, a meeting was held in a small meeting hall in Mudu
Perar. About 50 people participated in the meeting, including the mukkāldi
Bālākrishna Shetty, an advocate who belonged to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu,
and other core members of the higher-ranked guttu houses. The main sub-
ject of this meeting was how they should manage the village būta shrine
after the expiration of the present committee’s term of service. Above all,
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 131
discussion centred on the issue of how to deal with N. Shetty and his sup-
porters, who would likely try to interfere in the establishment of the next
committee: ‘Should we stand up to N. Shetty’s faction, or should we consult
an astrologer again about our course of action?’ ‘First of all, do the daivas
really need astrology?’ After long and lively discussion, it was decided that
interested villagers would collect contributions and organise another astro-
logical ritual. It was also decided that they would establish a new society for
social activities and register it at the Deputy Commissioner’s Office. The
society would be called ‘Perara Sanskriti Protishtāna (Perar Cultural Com-
mittee)’. All the participants agreed that through this new committee, they
would recover their rights in the village būta shrine and then establish a new
system of management that, while based on the kaṭṭụ, would also be open
to all villagers.

Between the agency of deities and the power of modern law

Focusing on the disputes over the village būta shrine in Perar, we have ex-
amined the entanglement of different logics and forces, such as customary
law and modern law, and the agency of deities and the power of the judici-
ary, to clarify people’s struggles to deal with these forces.
As seen in the first section, one of the main subjects in previous stud-
ies on Hindu temples in South India has been the institutional change of
temples since colonial times. For instance, Appadurai (1981) and Dirks
(1987) described the process of the decline of traditional kingship and the
transformation of temples in accordance with the advent of a centralised
bureaucracy and modern judiciary. The transformation process of Hindu
temples is for the most part similar to the changes that būta shrines in South
Kanara have seen. In line with the development of centralised administra-
tion for religious institutions, the būta shrine in Perar also became subject
to management and control by the modern state and law. In this process,
some people strived to acquire or enlarge their own rights and interests in
the village būta shrine by using the modern judiciary. In response to villag-
ers’ demands for the redistribution or transference of rights in the village
shrine and for the democratisation of shrine management, the members of
the higher-ranked guttus, who had long occupied the status of trustees of
the village būta shrine, were faced with the need to appeal for their rights
in the shrine in terms of modern law.
At the same time, turning to the ritual practice in the village būta shrine,
it becomes clear that we cannot presume the unilateral historical change
described by previous studies, such as from the rule of the deity and king to
control by the modern state and law, or from the ritual exchange of offerings
and honours to the ‘commoditisation of honours’ and ‘commercialisation of
worship’ (Dirks 1987, pp. 361, 383).
In the nēma and other būta rituals, people communicate with deities in
various ways. Among these, the most important mode of communication
132 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
is the transaction of offerings and blessings between devotees and deities.
Through this transaction, the mutual rights and duties (adikāra) of both
humans and deities are reconfirmed and the supreme power and authority
of the deities is publicly recognised.
As seen in this chapter, both the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family and the mem-
bers of the committee participated in ritual transaction with the būtas.
Through these transactions with the deities incarnated in mediums, they
not only affirm the supreme power of the deities, but also become recipients
of their agency. While engaged in the lawsuit over the rights and duties de-
fined by modern law and approved by the judiciary, through ritual practice,
they were all placed in the transactional network and came to act as those
who bear the mythical adikāra that determine the relationship between hu-
mans and deities.
In relation to both the būta ritual and the courts, with their different man-
ifestations of logic and power, the people involved have sought better posi-
tions and courses of action. Here, it is noteworthy that their practices almost
always contain a duality, or entanglement, of activity and passivity, auton-
omy and heteronomy. In the ever-changing situation, the people concerned
in the dispute, such as the guttu families, ritual servants, other villagers, and
the committee members, all plan to maintain and enlarge their rights and
interests, and sometimes act strategically. At the same time, on the verge
of a difficult situation, they often depend on the oracles of deities and as-
trology as the basis for their decision-making. Acts and decisions based on
the agency of deities, which temporarily appears in between the realms of
jōga and māya, thus influence relations in, and processes of, disputes, and
thereby generate further responses and transformations.
It should be noted, however, that it is overly schematic to view people as
acting rationally and autonomously in the realm of the modern judiciary
while acting passively and heteronomously in the realm of traditional wor-
ship. When participating in lawsuits, people are constrained by the various
rules, customs, terminologies, and systems of the modern judiciary, and
they strive to organise their modes of action in accordance with its strict
logic and force. Likewise, in ritual practice, people strive to control their
behaviour and shape their modes of action by following various rules and
taboos called kaṭṭụ, norms and logics manifested in the oral epic, and, above
all, the agency of the deities.
This is probably the reason why people often search in modern law and
systems for ways to free themselves from the constraints and difficulties of
customary law and systems, and yet at the same time, they return again and
again to ritual practice to communicate with the būta śakti that directs their
lives beyond any of the rules and restrictions of modern law and systems.
While coming from different origins and histories, and embodying different
values and logics, modern law and customary law thus appear to the people
who relate themselves to both as deeply entangled, and even complemental,
realms of power.
 Būta’s agency in conflicts 133
The cases examined in this chapter thus cannot be understood as illustrating
the mere process of new laws and systems which embody modern values and
logics encompassing, changing, and surpassing traditional systems based on
būta worship. They also cannot be interpreted as a process of the conservation
and recovery of traditional laws and systems by avoiding modern influence.
Rather, these cases show how people who have been involved in entanglements
of, and conflicts between, the modern judiciary and būta worship reorganise
their relationships with others and recreate their modes of life, not only by fol-
lowing, but also by utilising the respective power of modern law and deities.
This point will be considered again in the succeeding chapters, as part of the
investigation of people’s practices under large-scale social changes such as the
reorganisation of the matrilineal system and land tenure, the implementation of
land reforms, and the advent of a massive development project.

Notes
1 See, for instance, Appadurai and Breckenridge (1976), Appadurai (1981), Fuller
(1984), Presler (1987), and Dirks (1987).
2 Fuller (2003), however, carried out a follow-up survey on the same temple and
clarified that the traditionalism of priests and authority of the temple had actu-
ally increased under state policy.
3 On the juristic personality of Hindu deities in terms of religious endowments,
see Sontheimer (1965).
4 On the gift-exchange relationship in Hindu society which does not form a closed
cycle, see Parry (1986).
5 In Tuḷu, darṣana indicates vision or sight, and also means trembling due to pos-
session by deities. See Upadhyaya (1988–1997, p. 1571).
6 Regarding the issue of agency manifested through interactions between humans
and deities, see also Gell (1997), Pinney (2001), and Ishii (2014a).
7 On the participation of government officials in Hindu rituals in temples, see
Appadurai (1981, p. 49) and Fuller (1984, pp. 76–77).
8 Because the village būta shrine was located in Padu Perar, the institution was
called ‘the Padu Perar institution’ in the court record.
9 Under the HRE Act, ‘hereditary’ temples (that is, temples whose managers had
not previously been selected by government officers) were seen as private institu-
tions and were thus relatively free from any direct outside control. The ‘excepted’
temple category was abolished in 1959 (see Presler 1987, pp. 24, 48).
10 The dispute between the asrāṇṇa and the higher-ranked guttu houses over
the management of the village būta shrine continued intermittently. In 1960,
a judgement was given that dismissed the asrāṇṇa’s rights in the village būta
shrine, except for his right in the guṇḍa (O.S. No. 25 of 1960).
11 In principle, Deputy Commissioner of the Dakshina Kannada district serves
concurrently as Deputy Commissioner for Hindu Religious Institutions and
Charitable Endowments and executes his duties under the Commissioner.
12 ‘Law CR [Court Records] No. 7/2002–2003’ indicates the original order by which
the Deputy Commissioner appointed N. Shetty as the fit person for the shrine
management in January 2003. It is also the title of the body of documents about
the disputes regarding this order.
13 The Madras Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments Act, 1951 had been
in force until the Hindu Religious Institutions and Charitable Endowments Act
came into force in May 2003. See Presler (1987, p. 28, note 32).
134 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
14 People in South Kanara often invite astrologers from Kerala who belong to the
community called Poduvāl. This time too the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family invited
famous astrologers from Kerala, and in addition to the expenditure for the ritual,
the family had to pay all the expenses for their travel and stay in Mangaluru. On
Poduvāl, see also Thurston (1975[1909d]), pp. 203–205).
15 Durgā is one of the great Hindu goddesses, who is believed to be the wife of the
god Shiva and to be a dreadful warrior who kills demons.
9 Historical changes in land
tenure in South Kanara

As I discussed in Part One, people involved in būta worship in South ­Kanara

consider the deities not just as objects of worship in shrines, but as circulat-
ing power that link the realm of the wild and the realm of the human. The
būta śakti enables the continuance and reproduction of people’s everyday
life by constantly changing its form as it flows through the mountains, fields,
village houses, and shrines, bringing fertility to the land and prosperity to
the families. However, though the būta śakti brings about fecundity, it is
at the same time dangerous; hence, the people must direct its flow through
ritual, and adjust their relationship with the realm of the wild. They need
to keep placating the dangerous power by offering the products of the land
they cultivate in return for receiving the fertile power of the wild.
Oral epics and rituals in Perar express such relationships between the
people, land and nature, and deities. In the pāḍdana, the mythic origin of
ritual is chanted, recounting how Balavāṇḍi and other būtas demanded that
the guttu houses should worship them in exchange for rights to control the
village land. Through the exchange of offerings and blessings between the
guttu heads and deities, the nēma also re-enacts a mythical drama in which
the deities demand the performance of rituals and grant the guttu heads
adikāra to the land and its people. The guttus’ control and rights over vil-
lage land are thus renewed through rituals. At the same time, the people
reaffirm the fact that such rights are transitory and impossible to attain
without the deities’ acknowledgement. It is the būtas dwelling deep in the
forests as the ultimate ‘owners of the land’ who rule over agricultural fields,
forests, houses, and products of the land in Perar. The people only receive
transient rights by offering rituals to the deities and appeasing them.
Būta rituals have been the basis of land use and holding, as well as
­production and distribution of agricultural products in village society. At
the same time, the continuation of such rituals has been supported by the
traditional land tenure system by which guttus who ruled over vast areas of
land managed the shrine, and distributed land and products according to
the ritual status of each family. As we will see in Chapters 10, the mainte-
nance and succession of būta rituals and land tenure among the guttus, con-
stituted mainly by the Baṇṭa, was possible due to the traditional matrilineal
system called aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ.
136 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Land in South Kanara was an important source of income for the state
and government of the region from the pre-colonial period to the present
day. Moreover, it has been a significant target of public policy since land
was the key to rule and governance over the local people whose livelihood
depended on farming. Therefore, land has continued to be the site where the
logic, values, and power of public policy and law meet, compete, interact
with, and mutually influence the logic, values, and power shaped by custom-
ary relationships between people. In this process, the people have crafted
many imaginative and conflicting practices to modify their relationships
with land, nature, and others to the various new institutions that demanded
the reassembling of and changes in customary relationships.
In this chapter, I will look at the historical development of land tenure
in South Kanara from the pre-colonial era to the period of land reforms
after independence. This will set the context for understanding people’s
practices in dealing with changes in public policies over land by focus-
ing on their relationship with būta rituals in subsequent chapters. I will
first give an outline of the land tenure system in South Kanara based on
historical sources. Next, I will focus on the introduction of the ryotwari
system in the colonial period and analyse the characteristics of the system
in South Kanara. I will then examine the official documents published in
the early twentieth century on land tax assessment and the registration of
landholders (paṭṭadār) in Perar.1 The results of this analysis will show that
not only did the existing landlords took on the role of paṭṭadārs, but the
traditional kinship system based on matriliny was also applied to the new
land tenure system. I will deal with this matter in more detail in the subse-
quent chapters. Last, I will present an outline of the effects of land reform
in South Kanara based on previous studies as a background to what I will
discuss in Chapter 11.

Land tenure in pre-colonial South Kanara

The history of South Kanara before British colonial rule may be divided
roughly into four periods: Āḷupa period (around sixth century to end of
fourteenth century);2 Vijayanagara period (mid-fourteenth century to sev-
enteenth century); period of Keḷadi Nāyakas (early seventeenth century
to eighteenth century);3 period of Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan (1763–1799)
(Ramesh 1970; Abhishankar 1973, pp. 33–85).
Ramesh analyses the history of South Kanara based on inscriptions on
stone and copper plates (Ramesh 1970, p. xvii). He classifies inscriptions
from the mid-seventh century to the Battle of Rakkasa-Taṅgaḍi in 1565 as
follows: early Āḷupa period (mid-seventh century to mid-tenth century); mid-
to late-Āḷupa, Hoysaḷa period (968 to late fourteenth century); V
­ ijayanagara
period (1345–1565). I will give an outline of land tenure and socio-economic
conditions of South Kanara in the Āḷupa and Vijayanagara periods based
mostly on Ramesh’s work.4
 Historical changes in land tenure 137
Land tenure in the Āḷupa period
We do not have much evidence about the everyday lives of people in South
Kanara before the early Āḷupa period. According to Ramesh, it is written
in an inscription of the mid-seventh century that South Kanara was ruled
by Āḷuvarasa, and Āḷuva or Āḷupa appears as names of the royal family in
later inscriptions. South Kanara was predominantly agricultural since early
times, and land wealth was called bāḷu, which meant life and subsistence.
Land was owned not only by royalty but also by private citizens. In early
Āḷupa period, the king’s land was bestowed on temples, Brahman priests,
private citizens, and warriors. The royal family also collected taxes on
paddy, rice, pepper, cotton, and areca nuts (Ramesh 1970, pp. 269–272).
By the mid- to late-Āḷupa period, the word bāḷu became a synonym for
land wealth. In this period, names of measuring vessels of agricultural prod-
ucts (muḍi) and terms relating to land tenure used in present-day South
­Kanara began to appear in the inscriptions. For example, gēṇi referred
to land tenancy or rent paid to the landholder by the tenant,5 and mūliga
referred to farmers who permanently borrowed cultivable land from land
owners (Ramesh 1970, pp. 275–276). The people subsisted mainly on ag-
riculture, and land and its products were the major source of income for
the royal family. Many kinds of taxes were levied on land, its products, and
trade in this period. According to the inscriptions of the period, it was the
duty of the villages to pay tax in cash to the royal treasury. These taxes were
called ­samudāya, which meant collective tax or contribution. Landholders
and farmers also paid a part of the products of the land to the royal treasury
as tax. Landholders paid tax on land ownership in cash. This tax was called
bhukti samudāya from the word bhukti meaning ‘enjoyment’ and ‘ownership’.
Various plots of cultivable land were also taxed (Ramesh 1970, pp. 277–278).
From the above description, we see that land was a valuable resource for
people’s livelihood during the Āḷupa period. We also see that the state levied
various taxes on land and its products as a major source of income.

System of land tenure in the Vijayanagara period

During the period of Vijayanagara rule, South Kanara was divided into two
parts, Bārakūru rājya and Maṅgaḷūru rājya, each region being governed by a
ruler appointed by the kingdom. Most of the areas, however, were under the
rule of local chiefs (Ramesh 1970, p. 279). As the Āḷupa royal family declined
and the Vijayanagara kingdom came to dominate, there was a rise of many fam-
ilies of local Jain rulers in South Kanara. These families ruled over each region
as landlords, and at the same time seemed to have contributed to the spread
of the matrilineal system (aḷiya santāna kaṭṭụ) in South Kanara. According to
Ramesh, there are no records of an inheritance system other than that from
the father to son in South Kanara until the mid-thirteenth century. The Āḷupa
royal family had not practised the aḷiya santāna system of inheritance from
138 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
mother’s brother to sister’s son. However, the Jain rulers generally followed the
matrilineal system; hence, their emergence appears to have led to the spread of
this system in South Kanara (Ramesh 1970, pp. 279–281).6
Commerce developed in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period.
­Several merchant guilds, including seṭṭikāṟa, were established in many
cities. Some agricultural products were imported from beyond the Ghats.
Since the growth of trade made the merchants rich, according to records of
the Vijayanagara period, the merchants and their guilds became significant
donors of cash and land to temples, along with the rulers of the kingdom
(Ramesh 1970, pp. 283–284).
However, rights to land tenure and cultivation in this period were almost
the same as those in the Āḷupa period. In many cases, the state owned the
villages and the cultivable land affiliated to them, which are described as
bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa and aramanege saluva bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa in the inscriptions.
Land owned by temples and private citizens was called differently accord-
ing to who the owners were. In this period too, land tax constituted the
major income of the state treasury. In the inscriptions of the Vijayanagara
period, there are descriptions of many kinds of land and land tax, including
the main ones in the Āḷupa period.
Ramesh lists several kinds of land, landowners, agricultural workers, and
taxes that appear in the inscriptions (Ramesh 1970, pp. 284–287). The rich-
ness of the vocabulary referring to land and taxes indicates the importance
of land policies and affluence of the tax system of this period. In fact, as
Ramesh points out, there was a great development in land policies of South
Kanara in the Vijayanagara period. Income from land tax was re-evaluated
from time to time, and buying and selling of land was governed by adminis-
trative rules. The borders (gaḍi) of plots owned by temples, individuals, and
guild organisations were fixed (Ramesh 1970, pp. 287–288).7
From this, we have a glimpse of the socio-economic conditions in South
Kanara, the administration of land in particular, in the Vijayanagara pe-
riod. Taxation and land management became more institutionalised during
this time compared with the Āḷupa period. But each region in South Kanara
was related to the centre through the rule of chieftains, rather than being
directly under the control of the central government (cf. Karashima 1994).
The presence of Jain landlords who exercised control at the local level in
South Kanara in this period and the establishment of administrative areas
related to taxation are particularly significant in relation to būta rituals. I
will discuss this in the next section by referring to the work of Gowda (2005).

Administrative system and būta rituals in the Vijayanagara period

Gowda investigates the institutionalisation of būta rituals in South Kanara
in relation to the administrative system of the Vijayanagara period (Gowda
2005, pp. 17–38). He points out that various regions in South Kanara
were placed under the administrative system of the central government.
 Historical changes in land tenure 139
The inscriptions of the period include references to names of administrative
units, such as dēśa, rājya, nāḍu, sīme, māgaṇe, grāma, ūru, cāvaḍi, and guttu.
Rājya, nāḍu, and sīme were larger administrative units, while māgaṇe, which
constituted a part of nāḍu or sīme, was a medium-sized unit consisting of
several grāmas. Grāma was a unit consisting of several villages and ūru was
a settlement inhabited by several families (okkalu). The units were hierarchi-
cally ordered from largest, rājya (or dēśa, maṇḍala ), to the smallest, okkalu
(Gowda 2005, pp. 27–28). Guttu functioned as an administrative unit as well
as an economic one. A village usually contained four to eight traditional
guttus, and the head of a guttu was responsible for collecting and paying
a fixed amount of tax to the state treasury. Village administrative organi-
sations included grāma, jagattu, and mukkāldi, and village administrative
officers were known by titles such as grāmani and madhyastha.8
If we compare the administrative system in South Kanara during the
­Vijayanagara period to the system of būta worship, we see that they are
correlated. Gowda points out that būtas can be classified according to their
power in the region as follows: Būtas of sīme (or nāḍu); būtas of māgaṇe;
būtas of grāma; būtas of ūru (village); būtas of guttu; and būtas of kuṭuma
(family) (Gowda 2005, pp. 29–30). In būta rituals, sīme as a whole was under
the control of arasu būtas or sīme būtas, which were called the ‘royal būtas’
(Gowda 2005, p. 30). All būtas below the māgaṇe būtas were subordinate
to sīme būtas, and had jurisdiction over their respective geographical ar-
eas, such as māgaṇe, grāma, and guttu. In this way, in principle, the power
of the būtas was geographically constrained and there was a hierarchy of
būtas with sīme būtas at the top, just as in the administrative system of the
Vijayanagara period.
A correlation between the Vijayanagara administrative system and būta
rituals can also be seen in the names and roles of the būtas. The king of sīme
in the Vijayanagara period was known as ‘king over two hundred people
(innūrāla arasu)’ and ‘king over one thousand people (sāvirāla arasu)’. The
same kind of names were used to refer to būtas, for example, Paṅjūrli būta
was often called the ‘Paṅjūrli of a thousand people’. Būtas were said to have
royal jurisdiction (paṭṭa) in ritual contexts.
From the above facts, Gowda concludes that the būtas upheld the exist-
ent hierarchical administrative system and its authority, and functioned
as its advocate in būta rituals such as nēma and kōla. Hence it can be said
that būta rituals functioned to maintain and reproduce the administra-
tive system in ritual contexts in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period.
­Politico-economic authority and land ownership rested in the hands of the
rulers and landlords in South Kanara up to the twentieth century, and the de-
velopment of būta rituals was closely linked to its history (Gowda 2005, p. 31).
If we combine the insights of the research by Ramesh and Gowda, we see
the possibility of a close connection between the organisation of būta rituals
and the establishment of administrative divisions and landlords’ rule over
land in the Vijayanagara period. As I have already mentioned, land policy in
140 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
South Kanara greatly developed during the Vijayanagara period, and var-
ious regions were ordered in a hierarchy of territories from the uppermost
sīme, a little kingdom ruled by a local king, to guttu, the domain of the
village landlord. Some of the rulers of sīme seemed to have been Jains who
had become prominent in South Kanara during the Vijayanagara period. In
this period, būta rituals were ordered to correlate with the administrative
and geographical units, and had jurisdiction over local society along with
the heads of administrative units. The highest in rank were the king and the
būta of sīme, and at the bottom of the hierarchy were the family head and
its būta.
Oral epics (pāḍdana) narrating the origin of būta rituals reflect this his-
tory. As we saw in Chapter 4, according to oral epics, royal būtas were first
welcomed in Perar by Koratāi Balardi, a female head of Jain guttu fam-
ily, who built a shrine and began the būta worship. It is said that the būta
ritual and the status of guttu were inherited by a Baṇṭa family through the
brother and sister she adopted. Balavāṇḍi of Perar begs a būta called Arasu,
that is to say, the būta king corresponding to the sīme king, and invites him
to Perar. By comparing the contents of such oral epics with the history of
South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period, we may presume that būtas came
to take on governing roles as they were coupled with their respective ad-
ministrative units, namely small states governed by Jain rulers and local
societies of different scales, such as grāma and ūru. This process promoted
the organisation and hierarchy of būta rituals.
We should also consider why it was the būtas that came to complement
the administrative system and the landlords’ authority in South Kanara. It
is not easy to give a definitive answer to this question, but it may be because
the būtas were widely worshipped as indigenous deities strongly linked to
nature and particular lands, and were the ‘owners of the land’ who deter-
mined the fertility and productivity of the region. Incorporating deities that
were considered to be the ultimate ‘owner’ and basis of the land and its
products into the administrative system based on land tax, and correlating
the head of administrative unit with the būta at each level, made it possible
to legitimise political rule over land and those who cultivated the land as
having the blessings and acknowledgement of the deities.
However, we should note that the relationship between būtas and humans
cannot be reduced to such a functional interpretation. As we saw in Part
One, būta rituals not only grant the guttus legitimacy but also destabilise
the authority of the devotees, including that of the guttus, by making the
people aware of the supreme authority of the būta itself. The correlation
between būta rituals and administrative systems mentioned by Gowda thus
should not be understood merely in terms of the political use of būta rituals
by the rulers. That is to say, the linking of the system of governance and būta
rituals does not imply an absolute domestication or institutionalisation of
the latter. Rather, it is a process whereby the wild śakti penetrates the realm
of politics and becomes the source of political power.
 Historical changes in land tenure 141
As I have discussed so far, in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period,
the authority and power of būtas were hierarchically organised correlating
with the establishment of administrative units. Systems of political, legal,
and religious rule were formed at the level of village society, and land and
families were organised under this system. Also during this period, there
was probably a hierarchical ordering of families devoted to the village būta
shrine, as well as distribution of grants and agricultural products according
to the status and role of each family.
As I have already mentioned, in Perar, there was a hierarchical order-
ing of the main families centred on the guttu families and the village būta
shrine. There was a system whereby each family was given land belonging
to the shrine and a part of agricultural products along with the būta’s bless-
ings. The heads of guttu families not only ruled the village society based on
their land ownership, but also were in charge of distributing the products of
and rights to the land. Central to this distribution process were the ‘rājanụ
daiva’, who owned vast amounts of land as shrine wealth, accumulated local
products as offerings, and controlled the redistribution of land and its prod-
ucts through the guttu heads.9

Land policy in South Kanara in the colonial period

Land system in the Keḷadi Nāyaka period

In this section, I discuss the land policy in South Kanara during the colonial
period. Before I do so, let me give a brief account of the conditions in South
Kanara from the seventeenth century to the end of eighteenth century, the
period of transition from Keḷadi Nāyaka to British rule.
South Kanara was ruled by the Keḷadi Nāyakas from the early seventeenth
century to 1763.10 Historical records of land policy of this period, however,
are insufficient (Stein 1989, p. 71). Madhava analyses religious organisation
and land tenure in coastal South Kanara from the late Vijayanagara period
to the Keḷadi Nāyaka period by using primary sources including inscrip-
tions (Madhava 1985). He notes that the ruling classes and wealthy citizens
donated land to religious institutions in South Kanara during this period.
Transfer of land was made in the deity’s name and the deity held proprietary
rights. This was known as dēva paṭṭe, and donated land (paṭṭi) was usually
exempted from tax.
Many inscriptions refer to land transfers called inām, umbaḷi, and uttāra.
Umbaḷi was essentially land for the purpose of self-sufficiency. Uttāra re-
ferred to land that was a source of income for special use such as for ritual
purposes. The person managing the religious institution at the time was said
to have often appealed to the ruler for the transfer of uttāra (Madhava 1985,
pp. 133–134). As we saw in Chapter 2, the families of workers (cākiridakulu)
serving the village būta shrine in Perar were given land called umbaḷi. Based
on Madhava’s research, we can assume that such land was for the purposes
142 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
of self-sufficiency and was transferred to various families tax-free in lieu of
services they offered to the būta shrines.
What is interesting about such land donations is that the ruling classes
and individuals sometimes donated land they purchased from the original
holders to religious institutions. In such cases, religious institutions were
given the original rights to the land by paying the donors some money. Those
in positions of authority in the religious institutions also personally bought
and sold land. In such cases, they were able to buy new land by paying tax
called kānike to the state treasury. It was also possible to mortgage and rent
donated land to tenants. Rulers of coastal South Kanara donated land to
religious institutions and at the same time had an income by collecting taxes
from them. There were also cases of rulers interfering in the use of the land
they donated (Madhava 1985, pp. 133–142).
In this way, in South Kanara during the period of Keḷadi Nāyakas, land
was an important medium for linking the ruling classes with the ordinary
people through donations and transfer. Land was also subject to sale and
rent, and an important source of income for religious institutions.11

Introduction of the ryotwari system by Munro

In 1763, Hyder Ali defeated the Keḷadi Nāyakas and occupied South
­Kanara. After the war of 1767, Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan fought many wars
against the British. When Hyder Ali died in 1782, Tipu Sultan, his successor,
­defeated the local chiefs of the region except for the southernmost area. Tipu
Sultan died fighting the Fourth Battle of Mysore in 1799, and South Kanara
came under British rule (Abhishankar 1973, pp. 4–5, 61–65). Since then the
land policy of South Kanara entered a new phase.
Many British, including Thomas Munro and John Sturrock, who gov-
erned South Kanara, refer to the brutality and exaction of Hyder Ali and
Tipu Sultan resulting in the ruin of the region and poverty of the landlords.
According to the historian Rao, who examines the discourses of colonial
administrators in nineteenth-century South Kanara, the British often men-
tion ‘the destructive performances of the Mysore rulers’ in South Kanara
and Malabar (Rao 1991, pp. 64–65). It was part of the British administra-
tor’s mission to restore the ‘wise and liberal institutions of the antient (sic)
Hindoo government’ (Stein 1989, p. 67)12 destroyed by the ‘rapacious Mys-
orean rule’ (Stein 1989, p. 67). In spite of the brevity of his term in Kanara,13
Thomas Munro, who drafted and headed the taxation system in the region,
also proposed the land tenure system in the Vijayanagara period as the ideal.
Thomas Munro was appointed as the first collector when Kanara came
under British rule in 1799. He worked on assessing land tax and establish-
ing a taxation system for around 15 months until he was appointed as the
collector of the Ceded Districts in October of the following year (Stein 1989,
p. 64). I will first give a brief account of Munro’s work in Kanara and its
evaluation at the time based on the writings of Arbuthnot (1889). Next, I will
 Historical changes in land tenure 143
analyse the land policy in colonial Kanara based on Stein’s research (1989),
which questions the predominant view of Munro by a critical reading of the
existing material about him.
According to Arbuthnot, the land of Kanara, which had been ­prosperous
with lower taxes than other regions in the past, was in a state of anarchy
and confusion due to having been ‘grievously oppressed by the exactions
of ­Hyder and Tipoo’ (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 55) by the time Munro took o ­ ffice
as the collector (Arbuthnot 1889, pp. 55–56; see also Stein 1989, pp. ­64–65).
Munro was thus faced with the difficult task of recovering order and
­establishing a taxation system, but he was adamant in creating a system
which was to become the basis of a tax system in Kanara. Munro traced
the records on systems of land tenure and tax assessment dating back to
the ­m id-­fourteenth century when Kanara was under Vijayanagara rule. He
thought the system of assessment introduced in this period was valid for his
purposes (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 58; see also Beaglehole 1966, pp. 46–47).
Arbuthnot points out that taxes in the Keḷadi Nāyaka period were rea-
sonable, as it did not go over a quarter of the total products. After Hyder
Ali conquered Kanara, however, people suffered due to heavy taxes and
oppression. Land in Kanara was originally considered as private property
and there were no restrictions placed on land transfer through sale. Many
land owners used tenants but these tenants had more or less permanent pos-
session. Moreover, most of the land in Kanara had high sale value. However,
this situation was changed during the rule of Hyder and Tipu. Many of the
old landlords were annihilated and rights of landholders were restricted.
According to Munro, however, the rights that endured were ‘still as much
cherished, and the title to it as obstinately contested, as it ever was perhaps
at any former period’ (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 60).
The land tenure and tax system promoted by Munro in Kanara was the
ryotwari system. This was a system by which taxes were collected from own-
ers of small plots without the intervention of any form of intermediaries,
such as zamindars.14 Ota’s research focuses on Baramahar where the assess-
ment method based on the ideas of the ryotwari system by Alexander Read
and Munro was first introduced in South India (Ota 1994). Ota points out
that under this system all land was owned by the state, and peasants who
used the land were all considered to be tenants, who signed a contract with
the state individually every year and were obliged to pay a fixed amount of
land tax per parcel. That is to say, there were three characteristics of the ry-
otwari system: land ownership by the state, individual liability of land tax,
and exclusion of intermediaries for tax collection (Ota 1994, p. 223; see also
Mizushima 1999, pp. 443–445).
According to Ota, the ryotwari system was formed essentially to adapt
to the natural environment and agricultural conditions of the dry region of
Baramahar. In late eighteenth-century Baramahar, land had little signifi-
cance in agricultural production and did not have commodity value. Ties
between peasants and land were weak, and there was a high rate of spatial
144 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
and social mobility. Under such conditions, it was reasonable to have a sys-
tem of state land ownership where tax was levied only on land cultivated
each year. However, it goes without saying that the situation in Baramahar
differed from that in Kanara, which was a pluvial region where land was
highly valued and old landlord classes were prominent.
The ryotwari system introduced in Kanara by Munro was appropriate for
the kind of land use in Kanara, so it differed from the system introduced in
Baramahar. Arbuthnot points out two characteristics of the ryotwari sys-
tem in Kanara. First, in many cases, land tax was to be paid not by the
actual cultivator, but by the landlord who used tenants and collected rent,
and by those who had semi-permanent land rights. Second, the amount of
tax assessed was not based on each plot of farmland but on each estate or
warg (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 62; Sturrock 1894, p. 118; Mukherjee 1962, p. 17;
Bhat 1998, pp. 90–91). Estates referred to by Arbuthnot as warg originally
meant the leaf that was used for land records by the Vijayanagara govern-
ment.15 It later came to refer to the collection of several plots of land owned
by one family recorded on these leaves. The landholder was called wargdār
or mūlawargdār meaning ‘original or hereditary holder’ (Baden-Powell 1990
[1892], p. 147).16
Such methods of land assessment and taxation were suited to land use in
Kanara where a landlord owned several plots scattered in various places
and tenants cultivated some parts of them. Thus, it was possible to assess
and collect land tax without introducing major changes in the existing form
of land use. Arbuthnot interprets this as a result of Munro’s respect for the
local system of land use (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 62; see also Beaglehole 1966,
pp. 8–9). Arbuthnot argues that Munro’s tax policy accepted the existing
local system and did not introduce changes that were deemed unnecessary.
Munro discovered ‘a very widely established system of private property in
land’ (Arbuthnot 1889, p. 62) in Kanara, and tried to reconstruct a system
that was valued by the local people, and to strengthen it, instead of replacing
it with a new system. He strongly opposed the demands made by the Madras
government to submit a plan to divide the region into large-scale estates
so that the principles of Bengali zamindari system can be applied. Munro
argued that all kinds of land in Kanara were considered as private property
and a significant value was attached to land and its title deed; therefore, it
would not be possible to divide Kanara into large-scale estates and collect
land taxes from a small number of large-scale landlords, unless all the rights
of existing landlords were annihilated (Arbuthnot 1889, pp. 62–63).
The sociologist, Damle, presents a different view from Arbuthnot of the
ryotwari system introduced in Kanara by Munro. Damle points out that
the ryotwari system was introduced in South Kanara without surveying the
plots.17 Several plots, the size of which were unknown and often located
in different places and villages, formed a holding called warg. These hold-
ings were not marked with borders appropriate for the ryotwari system, and
ownership rights of any size of land were permitted if the landholder agreed
 Historical changes in land tenure 145
to pay the amount of tax assessed by the government. Damle argues that
Munro levied tax not on farmland but on warg without changing the size of
the holding. Hence the ryotwari system did not change the existing system of
land tenure or lead to new rights. In other words, the position of landlords
as paṭṭadār was strengthened as the existing form of land holding was insti-
tutionalised (Damle 1991, pp. 147–148).
We gain an insight into the characteristics of the ryotwari system in
­Kanara from the accounts of Arbuthnot and Damle, though they differ in
that the former views Munro’s policy in a positive light while the latter is
critical of it. The ryotwari system introduced in Kanara differed from that
in Baramahar. It suited the conditions of existing land tenure in Kanara
as land tax was levied on warg consisting of several plots, and the warg
holders were made to pay land tax. Thus, the rights of existing landlords
were not lost due to introduction of this system. In fact, as Damle points
out, the status of the old landlords may have been strengthened by the
institutionalisation of the customary form of land holding. As we saw in
the previous section, village landlords had holdings at the village level in
the Vijayanagara period. We could say that several plots owned by such
landlord families came to be established as warg, and the family head (or
the representative of the sub-group of entire family, which I will mention
later) became the paṭṭadār.18

Munro’s intentions and the ‘invention of tradition’

What kind of logic did Munro employ to proceed with the introduction of
land policy and new system in Kanara? Stein analyses this by looking at
Munro’s use of historical sources (Stein 1989). Stein points out that Munro
submitted reports about Kanara to the Madras government on two occa-
sions, on 31 May and 19 November 1800. In the report submitted in May,
Munro argued that individual, private property in land dated back to an-
cient India. His claim was based on the view that Harihara, the king of
Vijayanagara, had created a system of assessment in fourteenth-century
Kanara in accordance with ancient Hindu texts (Stein 1989, p. 66).
About six months later, in the report of November 1800, Munro focused
on the importance of private property rights and the large number of law-
suits over land in Kanara at the time rather than on historical sources. He
took pains to respond to the request of the Madras government to intro-
duce land and tax system in Kanara following the example of the Bengali
zamindari system. As we have already seen in Arbuthnot’s account (1889,
pp. 63–64), Munro argued against the government’s request, pointing out
that since there were already private land holdings, and validity of land title
deeds was debated in law courts in Kanara, it would be impossible to create
large-scale holdings and landlords without annulling the rights of existing
landlords. Munro pointed out the value of small-scale holdings in Kanara,
and if the government were to proceed in creating large-scale holdings,
146 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
these holdings should adhere to the existing social and community borders.
He contended as follows:

The most convenient arrangement would be the ancient one of maganies

or gramams … To break in upon ancient boundaries and landmarks for
the sake of … squaring estates, would occasion much trouble … be-
cause these boundaries serve not only to divide lands, but also particu-
lar tribes or families who form distinct communities in their respective
villages.
(Stein 1989, p. 67)19

Stein points out that such statements by Munro could have dislodged his
own logical basis for promoting the introduction of the ryotwari system.
The claim that there were communities in local society weakened Munro’s
claim about the ryotwari system based on agreement between the state and
individual peasants. Moreover, references to ‘distinct communities’ (Stein
1989, p. 67) and land holdings cast doubts over Munro’s theory of there being
small-scale private property ownership by individuals. In spite of such risky
argumentation, Munro’s report gained the support of high officials in the
Madras government, and in 1804 the Court of Directors of the East India
Company expressed their appreciation of Munro’s achievements in extract-
ing land tax records of the past 400 years based on ancient historical sources.
However, Munro’s ‘historical’ reconstruction of ancient tax system, ac-
cording to Stein, was in fact nothing more than a conjecture based on ex-
tremely vague evidence. In his report of May 1800, Munro said that village
accountants in Kanara kept records of land holdings and transfers, and
‘black books (kaddatams)’ (Sturrock 1894, p. 95) with revenue reports over
several centuries. He stated that many of these black books were lost during
the rule of Hyder and Tipu, but enough of them remained to understand
the tax system of 400 years. Munro also claimed that according to ancient
tradition and descriptions, all cultivable land was privately owned and land
owned or rented by the state was unclaimed waste. He pointed out that there
was no land tax before the rule of King Harihara of Vijayanagara, and it
was after the reign of King Harihara that a system of dividing the products
of the land between the landlords, cultivators, and the government began.
He saw this as the standard for land tax in Kanara.
Stein argues that such claims by Munro were not historically verified.
Only Sturrock, one of Munro’s successors in Kanara, queried the existence
of the ‘black book’ on which Munro’s theory depended, and hinted that
Munro could not have reconstructed the tax rates of the time due to lack
of historical sources on areas of cultivated land and currency value of the
Vijayanagara period (Sturrock 1894, pp. 95–96; Stein 1989, pp. 67–70).
Stein critically analyses Munro’s hypothesis based on the historiography
of medieval Kanara by Ramesh (1970) and Bhatt (1975). Stein argues that
these historical studies do not support any of Munro’s hypotheses. First, as
 Historical changes in land tenure 147
opposed to Munro’s theory on the transformation of the land tax system
under the Vijayanagara kingdom, in Stein’s view, the expansion of Vijayan-
agara power had almost no administrative influence in the coastal region.
Stein points out that the ruling authority of chiefs from the olden days
continued in Kanara in this period. These chiefs included the matrilineal
Jains, and they maintained political independence from the Vijayanagara
administrative system. There was also continuity of a village administra-
tive system based on warriors and community of farmers. Second, whereas
Munro argues that there were no state-held lands in the Vijayanagara pe-
riod and periods preceding it, historical research of the medieval period
refers to land that was taxed at the government level (bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa).20
Third, Munro’s theory suggests that the land administration system intro-
duced by the Vijayanagara rulers was fundamentally changed by the Keḷadi
Nāyakas, but historical research points out that there are very few sources
about the land policy in the Keḷadi kingdom and Munro’s claims cannot be
substantiated.21 Stein thus argues that ‘Munro’s “historical” reconstruction
of Kanara’s land-revenue system was deceptive’ (Stein 1989, p. 71). Munro
had created a history in order to legitimise the level of tax assessment in the
region he managed and collect taxes without resistance from the old domi-
nant landholders (Stein 1989, pp. 70–71).
Stein’s critique of Munro’s report seems partly correct. Munro placed im-
portance on avoiding resistance and confusion among the landholders of
Kanara at the time when introducing new land and tax policies. For this
purpose, he came up with the idea of introducing the ryotwari system that
suited the existing form of land use/holding; and he tried to legitimise the in-
troduction of this system by referring to the ‘accounts and traditions’ (Stein
1989, p. 66) of the Vijayanagara period. He set up the warg as the unit of
taxation, made the warg holder the tax payer, presented the tax system of
the Vijayanagara period as the model for land policy, and stressed the im-
portance of existing boundaries and system of land tenure.
There are, however, some points in Stein’s critique of Munro’s hypotheses
that do not seem appropriate. One is Stein’s view of ‘political independence’
(Stein 1989, p. 70) of chiefs in the Vijayanagara period. Ramesh’s historical
research indeed refers to the emergence of local rulers in South Kanara in
the Vijayanagara period. However, we cannot infer from this that such rul-
ers were politically independent from the Vijayanagara kingdom. Rather,
we see how the rulers of the kingdom and its citizens were linked through
the people’s allegiance to local rulers (Ramesh 1970, p. 279). Moreover,
Ramesh’s research makes it clear that the land tax system greatly developed
during the Vijayanagara period (Ramesh 1970, p. 287), in contrast to Stein’s
view that the Vijayanagara kingdom had little administrative influence in
the coastal areas.
The ryotwari system in Kanara was designed for a stable collection of
tax, without taking away the rights of existing landholders, and avoiding
resistance from the dominant landlords. In this sense, the introduction of
148 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the system in Kanara was the same as the case in Baramahar, which stressed
continuity rather than disjunction from the existing form of land tenure in
the region (see Ota 1994, p. 232). Munro presented the land and tax system
of the Vijayanagara period as an ideal type, and considered the ryotwari
system as succeeding this ideal type. By doing so, he insisted on the histori-
cal continuity of the old and new systems, and called for a return to the ideal
state before the period of despotism of Hyder and Tipu.
As Stein points out, Munro’s policy and use of history may have been a
reconstruction or invention to legitimise the colonial plan and avoid resist-
ance from the landlord class, which was also the armed forces in Kanara at
the time. However, we could also say that Munro’s theory in the 1800 report
was an ‘invention of history’ to initiate land and tax policies suited to the
land use/holding specific to Kanara, and to convince the Madras govern-
ment not to import the zamindari system of Bengal.

Characteristics of land and tax policy of colonial Kanara

So far we have seen that land and tax system of colonial Kanara matched
the existing land tenure system rather than introducing new changes. Hence
the rights of existing landholders were maintained. However, it is doubtful
whether it can be called ‘private, individual … proprietorship’ (Stein 1989,
p. 67; see also Stein 1983, pp. 44–45) as Arbuthnot states in accordance
with Munro’s theory.
Munro repeatedly stresses the existence of small-scale private land own-
ership in Kanara. This may have been an attempt on his part to promote
the application of the ryotwari system, and to persuade the Madras govern-
ment that its request to introduce a land tax system based on the zamindari
system would be unsuitable for Kanara. As I will mention later, in South
Kanara, it was actually the matrilineal joint families (kuṭuma) of village
landlords or guttus that owned several plots as family land. Hence it is not
appropriate to consider this in terms of private land ownership by individ-
uals. A guttu family’s rights to land and its products were inseparable from
its ritual duties and rights in village society.
Many of the powerful landlords in colonial Kanara were Baṇṭa (Madhava
1984; Stein 1989, pp. 71–72). Munro’s land policy took into consideration
the rights of Baṇṭa, who constituted the armed forces at the time, to avoid
their resistance. Hence their rights to land were not so impaired by the in-
troduction of new policies. In fact, as Damle points out, it is possible that
the village landlords became the paṭṭadārs under the new land policy and
strengthened their status and authority in village society (Damle 1991).
What is interesting in relation to this point is the role of patterụ (Patel).
As Ota points out in the case of Baramahar, patterụs were appointed from
upper-class farmers to collect land tax from each village and mediate con-
flicts in the villages, along with the introduction of the ryotwari system (Ota
1994, pp. 230–231).22 In South Kanara, this contributed to strengthening
 Historical changes in land tenure 149
the authority of village landlord families. In the case of Perar, the eldest
man of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu was appointed as the patterụ from generation
to generation, and this was the second most important post after that of
the gaḍipatinārụ. This is significant in relation to būta rituals. The gaḍipat-
inārụ’s role in būta rituals and the patterụ’s role in village administration
were complementary in leading and constructing the ritual, political, and
legal system on which local society was based. These roles were monopo-
lised by the family of the most powerful guttu.
The selection of paṭṭadārs and appointment of patterụ in colonial South
Kanara re-established the guttus’ land rights and administrative/judicial roles
in local society, which had hitherto been inseparable from their roles in būta
rituals, as ‘secular rights’ cut off from the ritual context. At the same time,
these rights were re-defined as subordinate to the authority of the colonial
government. That is to say, the colonial government made a selection from
the various rights and roles of the guttus given and acknowledged by deities,
and attached new politico-judicial rights and roles to those that they thought
belonged to the secular sphere. At this stage, it seems that guttu families, who
had been exercising rights related to būta rituals, monopolised secular au-
thority established by colonialism. As a result, the powerful guttu families
came to take on both the rights and roles based on būta rituals and customary
law, and the politico-judicial roles ascribed by the colonial government.
In this way, the colonial land and tax system strengthened rather than
weakened the rights and status of landlords by institutionalising the exist-
ing land tenure system. As I will mention later, the monopoly over land by
Baṇṭa landlords became one of the targets of land reform in South Kanara
after independence. In the next section, I will look at land holding and use,
and the registration of paṭṭadārs in early twentieth-century South Kanara
focusing on cases in Mudu Perar.

Paṭṭadār and land tenure in early twentieth-century Perar

Land policy in South Kanara after the period of Munro

In this section, I will examine land tenure and paṭṭadārs in early ­twentieth-
century Mudu Perar based on administrative records published in 1904.
­Before doing so, let me summarise the history of land tenure in South K
­ anara
after the introduction of a new system by Munro, based on the ­writings of
Sturrock (1894), Abhishankar (1973), and Bhat (1998).
The Revenue Board considered Munro’s land and tax policies to be suffi-
cient, and tax collection policy in line with Munro’s plan was put into prac-
tice for approximately ten years. However, in the report about taxation from
1810 to 1812, it was suggested that the landholders were being excessively
affected by land tax assessment. In response to this, the Revenue Board de-
manded submission of a report from Alexander Read, the collector at that
time. In a report submitted in January 1814, Read called for attention to be
150 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
paid on the maximum limit of tax suggested by Munro. Read also suggested
reducing the assessment from 4% to 7% according to region (Sturrock 1894,
pp. 101–102; Abhishankar 1973, p. 429).
The report by Read and his successor, Thomas Harris, made the Board see
that the actual tax rate was a heavy burden on landholders. The Board ‘were
of opinion that the best standard of demand would be the average collec-
tions realised from each estate since the province had been under the British
Government’ (Sturrock 1894, p. 102). This assessment was carried out in the
year Fasli 1229 (1819–1820) (Sturrock 1894, pp. 102–103; Abhishankar 1973,
pp. 429–430; Maclean 1989 [1885], p. 63; Bhat 1998, pp. 107–108).23
In 1834, the collector, H. Viveash, suggested the introduction of a compre-
hensive assessment of uniform and permanent land tax. Viveash also clas-
sified various holdings (warg) according to how they were taxed, including
bharti, holdings where it was possible to pay all the tax levied by the fixed
assessment, and kambharti, holdings where it was not possible to pay all the
tax levied by the fixed assessment. The method of tax collection he proposed
was put into practice by local administrators, but it was not ultimately
­approved by the Revenue Board (Sturrock 1894, pp. 107–108; Bhat 1998,
pp. 114–115). The failure of Viveash’s revision of assessment was considered
to be a problem of the tax collection system in Kanara where there was no
accurate registration. The Revenue Board then began to search for a fairer
method of assessment. In 1848, T. L. Blane submitted a detailed report on
the land use and tax collection in Kanara, and debates over revision of sur-
vey and assessment continued till the 1880s (Sturrock 1894, pp. 107–114).
By the end of 1859, a major administrative change took place dividing
­Kanara into North Kanara district and South Kanara district. In 1862,
North Kanara district was annexed to the Bombay Presidency, and only
South Kanara district came under the Madras Presidency. Survey for
­taxation was conducted in South Kanara district from 1889 to 1896. The
survey made it clear that many warg were no longer units of land hold-
ing.24 Warg included several types of wetland, dryland, such as bayilụ/bailụ,
­majalụ, and beṭṭu, as well as land called bagayat suitable for cultivation of
areca nuts and coconuts. Supplementary survey was conducted to classify
land in further detail, and survey classifying the soil of bagayat continued
until 1903. Reassessment mainly restricted to the rise in prices of standard
crops was conducted from 1934 to 1935 (Abhishankar 1973, pp. 431–436).

Land tenure and paṭṭadār/paṭṭadārti in early twentieth-century

Mudu Perar
What were the conditions of land tenure in colonial Mudu Perar? How
did landlords, such as the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, respond to the introduction
of land tax assessment and registration of paṭṭadārs? I discuss this in this
­section by referring mainly to Survey and Settlement Register, Mudu Perar
Village, No. 53 (Couchman 1904, referred to below as SSRM).25
 Historical changes in land tenure 151
As I mentioned in Chapter 2, Mudu Perar and Padu Perar were origi-
nally one village which was administratively divided in 1904. According to
SSRM, land tax assessment was introduced to Mudu Perar in the year Fasli
1312 (1902–1903). SSRM of Mudu Perar I refer to in this section was re-
corded by M. E. Couchman, the Special Settlement Officer, and published
by the Revenue Settlement Office of Mangalore.
According to SSRM, the area of Mudu Perar was 2,208 acres 1 cent. ­Table 9.1
shows holdings of paṭṭadārs in Mudu Perar in year Fasli 1312. ­According to the
table, 104 single paṭṭadārs and 10 joint paṭṭadārs, that is a total of 114 paṭṭadārs,
were registered in Mudu Perar. The total area owned by these paṭṭadārs was
936 acres 35 cents. The average area owned by a paṭṭadār was 8 acres 21 cents,
and the total amount of land tax was 3,320 rupees 10 annas.
If we look at the number of paṭṭadārs in terms of payment, the largest
group of 44 cases was within ‘Rupee 1 to Rupees 10’. The average holding
of paṭṭadārs in this category is 2 acres 92 cents. The next largest group of 26
cases was those that came under ‘Rupees 10–30’ with the average holding
of 6 acres 90 cents. There were nine paṭṭadārs whose payment exceeded 100
rupees. Within this category, only two cases were included in the category of
‘Rupees 250–500’ with the average holding of 93 acres 42 cents.
From the above, we see that in Mudu Perar in year Fasli 1312, most reg-
istered paṭṭadārs were comparatively small-scale ‘ryots’ with ­approximately
3–7 acres of land. However, if we count joint paṭṭadārs, and religious
­institutions, such as temples, mutts, churches, mosques as ‘one paṭṭadār’,

Table 9.1 L
 and holding and land tax assessment of paṭṭadār in Mudu Perar
(Fasli 1312)

Paṭṭadār paying Number Area Assessment

Single Joint Total Total Average Total

Acres Cents Acres Cents Rupees Annas*

Rupee 1 or fewer 15 … 15 8 28 0 55 8 10
Rupee 1 to 37 7 44 128 56 2 92 182 13
Rupees 10
Rupees 10–30 24 2 26 179 51 6 90 532 2
Rupees 30–50 11 1 12 104 71 8 73 473 13
Rupees 50–100 8 … 8 128 29 16 4 574 8
Rupees 100–250 7 … 7 200 16 28 59 900 6
Rupees 250–500 2 … 2 186 84 93 42 648 6
Rupees … … … … … … … … …
500–1,000
Rupees 1,000 … … … … … … … … …
or more
Total 104 10 114 936 35 8 21 3,320 10

Source: Based on Couchman (1904: 2) with addition of the average area by the author.
* 1 rupee = 16 annas.
152 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
we see that the total number of 114 paṭṭadārs only constituted 6.4% of the
total population of 1,768 Mudu Perar in 1901. It may appear from this that
just 6.4% of the total population monopolised land, but the situation was
not so simple.
It should be noted that apart from religious institutions, many people reg-
istered in the SSRM of 1904 were not land owners with exclusive rights to
land assessed in their name. Their names were registered as representatives
of families who had joint rights to the land. This was especially the case
with female paṭṭadārtis belonging to Baṇṭa matrilineal joint families. For
example, as we will see later, the name of a paṭṭadārti called ‘Muṅḍabeṭṭu
Poovu’ appeared the most in SSRM. This did not mean that she ruled over
or occupied many holdings. Rather, her name represented the rights of the
members of her kuṭuma over family land.
Table 9.2 shows the 114 paṭṭadārs registered in SSRM by caste and type.
We see that the ‘single’ category constituted mostly of Muslims with 37 reg-
istered as paṭṭadārs, then of Baṇṭa with 31 registered as paṭṭadārs. Names
of 13 Brahmans, nine Christians, and seven Konkani are registered as
paṭṭadārs. Among the religious institutions registered as paṭṭadārs in SSRM
were Pējāvara Mutt in Udupi,26 God Sri Venkatramana temple of Gurpur,
and the village būta shrine in Padu Perar. The names of managers of these
respective institutions were registered as the paṭṭadārs. It is interesting that
in SSRM, the village būta shrine was registered as ‘God Bala Madi Temple’.
This shows that būta shrines were considered to be the same as Hindu tem-
ples in administrative terms and were treated as such at the time. The Ro-
man Catholic Church and the mosque in Mudu Perar were also registered
as paṭṭadārs.

Table 9.2 Caste/type of paṭṭadārs

Caste/type Number

Single Muslim 37
Baṇṭa 31
Brahman 13
Christian 9
Konkani 7
Temple * 2
Mutt 2
Unknown 3
Pūjāri or Kuḍubi 1
Mosque 1
Kuḍubi 1
Church 1
Joint Baṇṭa 4
Brahman and Baṇṭa 1
Brahman and Muslim 1
Total 114

* Includes one shrine in Perar registered as a ‘temple’.

 Historical changes in land tenure 153
Four groups consisting only of Baṇṭas, one group of Brahman and Baṇṭa,
and one group of Brahman and Muslim were registered as joint paṭṭadārs.
From this, we see that apart from the religious institutions mentioned above,
Muslims, Baṇṭas, Brahmans, Christians, and Konkani were the main land-
holders in Mudu Perar at the time. However, the number of names registered
as paṭṭadārs, such as 37 Muslim and 31 Baṇṭa, did not necessarily accurately
reflect the number of plots owned by each group. This was because there
were many cases of several plots being registered under the name of one
paṭṭadār. Table 9.3 shows the total number of registered paṭṭadārs corre-
sponding to assessed plots.
As we can see from Table 9.3, single holdings were mostly plots regis-
tered in the name of Baṇṭa paṭṭadārs. The order of numbers of registration
changed to Brahmans, Muslims, Christians, and Konkani. A total of 20
cases of joint paṭṭadārs constituted of Baṇṭas were registered. As we have
already seen, a total of 31 Baṇṭa names were registered as single paṭṭadārs.
This meant an average of about 10.9 plots per person; that is to say, one
Baṇṭa was registered as the paṭṭadār of an average of over ten plots in SSRM.
In this way, in SSRM, several plots were registered under few names of per-
sons as paṭṭadārs. In particular, a woman called ‘Poovu’ of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu was registered as the paṭṭadārti of a total of 68 plots. Table 9.4 shows
the total number of registered Baṇṭa paṭṭadārs by family.
As Table 9.4 shows, the most numerous of the single paṭṭadārs were 93
belonging to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, followed by 30 of the fifth guttu family,

Table 9.3 T
 otal number of registered paṭṭadārs corresponding
to assessed plots

Caste/type Number*

Single Baṇṭa 337

Brahman 129
Muslim 108
Christian 49
Konkani 35
Mutt 28
Pūjāri or Kuḍubi** 15
Temple*** 12
Unknown 5
Church 4
Mosque 3
Kuḍubi 1
Joint Baṇṭa 20
Brahman and Baṇṭa 6
Brahman and Muslim 3
Total 755

* Number of holdings assessed = total number of registered paṭṭadārs.

** Unable to determine the caste from the registered surname.
*** Includes the shrine of Perar registered as a ‘temple’.
154 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Table 9.4 Total number of registered paṭṭadārs belonging to Baṇṭa
(by family)

Family Total number*

Single Unable to specify 208

Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 93
Alakɛ guttu 30
Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu 6
Joint Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 20
Total 357

* Number of landholdings assessed = total number of registered paṭṭadārs.

Alakɛ guttu, and 6 of the third guttu family, Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu. Mem-
bers of joint paṭṭadārs registered under several names all belonged to the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. We can specify the above three families among the
paṭṭadār/paṭṭadārti in cases where the name of the registered person and
the name of the family to which she belonged are written next to each other,
for example, ‘Muṅḍabeṭṭu Poovu’ and ‘Alakɛ Mammu’.27
It is interesting that in the case of these guttu families, persons regis-
tered as representing each family were all women, and there were no male
paṭṭadārs prefixed with the name of the family. In the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu,
there were two names of women, ‘Muṅḍabeṭṭu Poovu’ and ‘Muṅḍabeṭṭu
Kunni’. Two women called ‘Alakɛ Mammu’ and ‘Alakɛ Kunni’ in the
Alakɛ guttu, and a woman called ‘Sanna Muṅḍabeṭṭu (small Muṅḍabeṭṭu)
Mammu’28 in the Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu were registered as paṭṭadārtis. As I
have already mentioned, Poovu was registered as the paṭṭadārti of a total of
68 plots, and Kunni as that of 25 plots in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. Mammu
was registered as the paṭṭadārti of 26 plots and Kunni as that of four plots in
the Alakɛ guttu. Mammu was registered as the paṭṭadārti of six plots in the
Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu.
These women were chosen as paṭṭadārtis of several plots held by their
respective matrilineal joint families (kuṭuma Ka. kuṭumba). This seems to
explain why so many plots were registered under the name of one paṭṭadārti.
There were 19 women (approximately 17.6%) among the total of 108 single
paṭṭadār/paṭṭadārti registered in SSRM. Baṇṭa paṭṭadārtis were the most nu-
merous, as there were fifteen Baṇṭas, two Christians, one Muslim, and one
unknown. Among the total number of 31 Baṇṭa paṭṭadārs, almost half were
women.
As we will see from the following chapter onwards, the registration
of paṭṭadārti came about due to the combination of aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ,
the matriliny of South Kanara, and the modern legal system. Due to the
­introduction of land tax assessment in the early twentieth century, local
landlords including the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu were made to publically regis-
ter the ‘owner’ of plots hitherto jointly held and managed by matrilineal
joint families. The eldest woman representing the kuṭuma was chosen as
 Historical changes in land tenure 155
the paṭṭadārti following the legal interpretation and definition of matriliny
constructed during and after the colonial period.
From such selection and registration of paṭṭadārtis, we can see that not
only did the existing landlords became paṭṭadārs under the new system of
land tenure, but the kinship system based on matriliny was also applied to
the new system in South Kanara. As I will explain in more detail in Chap-
ter 10, legal and administrative policies since the colonial period, such as
land tax assessment, registration of paṭṭadār/paṭṭadārti, and modernisation
of customary matriliny, fixed the category of matrilineal joint family and
required the construction and substantiation of land rights of its members.

Land reform after independence

After India’s independence from British rule in 1947, land policy in South
Kanara entered a new phase led mainly by the state government (the state of
Mysore, which later became the state of Karnataka). In this section, I will
discuss the contents and consequences of land reforms in South Kanara af-
ter independence focusing on the Mysore Land Reforms Act, 1961 (Mysore
Act No. 10 of 1962) and the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act,
1973 (Karnataka Act No. 1 of 1974). I will give an outline based on previous
research before discussing the details of individual cases in Chapter 11.
In this section, I will mainly deal with works by political economists on the
state of Karnataka, whose common question was ‘Why were land reforms
unsuccessful in Karnataka?’ Political economists, such as Thimmaiah and
Aziz, classify the history of land reforms in Karnataka since independence
into four periods, namely, 1947–1956: period from independence to reor-
ganisation of the state; 1956–1971: period from reorganisation of the state
to the period of the enactment of the Mysore Land Reforms Act; 1971–1977:
period of Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act and its compulsory
enforcement; and period after 1977. They examine the contents and results
of the land reforms in each period, focusing on the actions of interest groups
(Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, 1984a, 1984b). Let us take a look at the outline of
the history paying special attention to South Kanara.

1947–1956: period from independence to reorganisation of the state

The abolition of tax-free land (inām) was promoted in the first period men-
tioned by Thimmaiah and Aziz, that is, from 1947 to 1956. In the state of
Mysore at the time, Vokkaliga, Lingayat, and Brahmans constituted the
landlord class, and many Brahman landlords owned ināms. Many of them
were absentee landlords residing in cities, and their estates were cultivated
by tenants belonged to Vokkaliga and Lingayat.
The tenant class was a vote bank of the state government at the time,
and non-Brahman landlords dominated the state government. The In-
dian National Congress introduced progressive land reforms just after
156 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
independence, including abolition of the zamindari system. Inām holders
were the targets of reform in Karnataka. The state government began to
prepare the legal grounds for abolition of inām, but required the coopera-
tion of Brahman bureaucrats to bring them into effect. It faced difficulties in
executing laws due to powerful resistance by Brahman landlords.
The Legislative Assembly passed a resolution to abolish ināms in 1947,
but the resolution was not made into law until 1954. The Mysore Alien-
ated Villages (Protection of Tenants and Miscellaneous Provisions) Act was
passed in 1950 in order to protect tenants from inām holders and regulate
tenancy. The Mysore (Personal and Miscellaneous) Inams Abolition Act
was passed in 1954, and eventually the Mysore (Religious and Charitable)
Inams Abolition Act in 1955, ordering the abolishment of religious ināms.

1956–1971: period from reorganisation of the state to the period of

the enactment of the Mysore Land Reforms Act
Let us examine the land policies of the second period from 1956 to 1971.
The state was reorganised in 1956, and a new state of Mysore was created
from the old state of Mysore, state of Coorg, and the Kannaḍa-speaking ar-
eas of the former Bombay and Madras provinces, and of the Princely State
of Hyderabad (Iyer 1997, p. 179).29 If we look at the political situation of
the time, Brahmans continued to be bureaucrats, and the Lingayats and
Vokkaliga constituted the landlord class. But it was the poor peasants, ten-
ants, and the landless who constituted the important voting banks for the
state government. Hence the state government could not ignore demands for
land reform, and the Mysore Tenancy and Agricultural Land Laws Com-
mittee was set up in 1957. The Mysore Land Reforms Bill was submitted to
the state parliament in 1958, passed in 1961, and approved by the president
in 1962. However, the bill required partial amendments, and it only came
to be enforced as the Act. No. 14 of 1965 (Abhishankar 1973, pp. 443–445;
­Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, p. 815).
Thimmaiah and Aziz point out that pressures exerted by the landlord
class, which was a powerful interest group, led to the delay in the law taking
effect. Through the legal measures by the state government, the landlord
class had accumulated knowledge about land reforms from the 1940s to the
early 1950s and lobbied at many stages of the decision-making process. Lin-
gayat and Vokkaliga, the traditional landlords, sent representatives of their
respective groups to parliament, and the parliament was dominated by these
groups until the early 1970s. As a result, the content of the land reforms re-
flected the views of the landlord class. First, the Mysore Land Reforms Act
set the maximum holding of a household of five persons at 27 standard acres
(Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, p. 816).30 Actually, however, different maximum
holdings were fixed according to fertility of land, availability of irrigation,
and so on. For example, 216 acres of dry land was determined as equivalent
to 27 standard acres. There were also provisions for allowing separate acre
 Historical changes in land tenure 157
holdings per one extra family member for households with more than five
persons, and exemptions for widows and the handicapped. These measures
led to raising the maximum holding and served the interests of landlord
class.
In this way, existing landlords did their best to protect the interests of
their own groups regarding provisions for maximum holdings. We should
note, however, that they did not show much resistance to tenancy regula-
tions. These were constituted mainly of regulated rents and regulated ten-
ures. The latter was a regulation to restrict landlords from evicting tenants
and reclaiming land as their own farmland. But this provision was not suf-
ficiently effective in the Mysore Land Reforms Act, and as a result, there
was a dramatic increase in the number of evicted tenants on the pretext of
landlords farming their own land.
The Mysore Land Reforms Act seemed contradictory as it put severe
restrictions on tenancy on the one hand, and made provisions for raising
maximum holdings on the other. But in fact, it served the interests of the
dominant landlord class. Loose regulations on maximum holdings allowed
landlords living in countryside time and leeway to reorganise land records
so that they could continue to keep their land intact. Severe tenancy regu-
lations enabled tenants belonging to the same group as the dominant land-
lord class to take away land rights of absentee landlords (mainly Brahmans)
living in cities. Landlords living in the countryside were able to get around
this regulation by reclaiming land from tenants as self-cultivated farms. The
interests of existing landlords were maintained by such legal and adminis-
trative strategies (Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, pp. 815–822).

1971–1977: period of Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment)

Act and its compulsory enforcement
After the Indian National Congress split up in 1969, non-landlord ­‘Backward’
minorities dominated the parliament in the Mysore state, paving the way
for more radical land reforms. In 1969, the National Planning Commission
submitted a guideline in which the average family was defined as a family
of five, with a father, a mother, and three underage children, and limits of
land holding were set between 10 acres and 18 acres of double cropping irri-
gated agricultural land. It also suggested that cultivation rights of tenants and
sharecroppers and existing tenancies should be guaranteed. The ­Mysore state
government (Karnataka after November 1973) began the amendment of the
Mysore Land Reforms Act. A draft of a comprehensive bill was submitted in
1971, received advice from a Joint Select Committee, and the state government
passed the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act in 1973, which was
approved by the president in March 1974.
Let us look at the characteristic features of the Karnataka Land Re-
forms (Amendment) Act. First, it was absolutely forbidden for landlords to
­re-occupy leased land. Leasing of land was also abolished with the exception
158 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
of cases involving soldiers and sailors. The maximum holding was reduced
to ten units.31 A land tribunal was to be established in each taluk. This law
was enforced before 1977, but the impetus for land reform gradually de-
creased after 1978 (Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, pp. 822–826).
Let us be clear about the functions of the land tribunals. By the enforce-
ment of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, all private holdings leased at
the time of 1 March 1974 came to belong to the government. The person leas-
ing the land from the owner had to apply to the land tribunals for ownership.
The land tribunal decided whether the land in question was leased legally
and hence be handed over to the government, and whether the applicant was
qualified to occupy the land. If these conditions were met in the lease, the
land tribunal separated the relation between the landlord and tenant, ne-
gotiated payment of compensation between the landlord and government,
fixed the land price, and arranged for a certificate of occupancy between
the tenant and government. To make people abide to the amendment of the
maximum holding, all those who owned more than the stipulated area had
to present a declaration. The declaration was submitted to the land tribunal
after checking and surveying. The tribunal had the authority to determine
the area of the excess land declared (Rajan 1984, pp. 139–140).
The Land Reforms (Amendment) Act seemed to be progressive at first
sight, but resulted in maintaining the interests of the existing dominant land-
lord class. First, regarding tenant land, apart from the cases of soldiers and
sailors, all benefits for widows and the handicapped were abolished, as well
as rights of landlords to reoccupy tenant land. But this law did not prevent
landlords from asserting rights as tenants of other land, and this worked as
an advantage for tenants belonging to the dominant landlord class. Land-
lord class tenants were not only given the same rights as poor tenants, but
were also in a better position to purchase land. Pani (1984, p. 46) points out
that, strictly speaking, the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act in Karnataka
did not provide land to tenants, but gave rights to buy land at fixed prices.
The government bought leased land from landlords at fixed prices cheaper
than the market price, and tenants bought land from the government at the
same prices. Thus, tenants who had the funds to buy land were at an advan-
tage, and those who did not have the money had to arrange for loans.
Regarding the maximum holding, we have already seen that the Land
Reforms (Amendment) Act reduced the maximum to ten units from the 27
standard acres stipulated by the Mysore Land Reforms Act. This seems to
be a substantial reduction, but in reality, other changes were applied that
raised the maximum holding. To identify what actually happened, we need
to understand the significance of the change from acre to unit. In the My-
sore Land Reforms Act, one acre of first class irrigated land was set as one
standard acre. In the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, a unit constituted
land classified as over eight annas and irrigated by government irrigation
facilities or water tank to ensure double cropping. Land meeting this ir-
rigation standard was categorised as Class A, regardless of the soil type.
 Historical changes in land tenure 159
This meant that land irrigated by a privately owned water source was per-
mitted to be held at a maximum higher than land irrigated by government
facilities. As a result, landholders with private irrigation facilities were given
preferential treatment.
The redefinition of the family under the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act
also privileged large-scale landholders. The Mysore Land Reforms Act stip-
ulated that a family constituted of husband, wife, and dependent children
and grandchildren. Meanwhile, the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act stipu-
lated that a family constituted of husband, wife, unmarried daughters, and
underage sons. An adult son was able to demand land under the maximum
amount as a member of a separate family. In the case of a large extended
family, where one family member farmed the land of another member, the
former was able to demand land rights as the ‘tenant’ of the latter (Pani
1984, pp. 44–50).
In this way, the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act appeared at first sight
to be highly advanced, but, in reality, it resulted in favouring the dominant
landlord class who had the money. Pani, a political economist, analyses this
in terms of the gap between ‘ownership’ and ‘control’ in local society in
Karnataka (Pani 1984, p. 54). He points out that the Land Reforms (Amend-
ment) Act emphasised attack on land ownership rights, and did not con-
sider the issue of who controlled the land. Ownership and control did not
necessary match in local society in Karnataka. For example, by registering
the land under the names of several family members, a landlord could con-
trol several hundred acres of land without leaving any redundant land for
redistribution. The incursion on ownership by the Land Reforms (Amend-
ment) Act thus provided an ‘ideal’ way to maintain social control. By only
confronting ownership rights without doing anything about the aspect of
control, the Act had led to disadvantaging small-scale peasants and agricul-
tural labourers while privileging the landlord class.
Pani’s distinction between ‘ownership’ and ‘control’ is insightful. In par-
ticular, he makes an important point about the Land Reforms (Amendment)
Act of 1974 that targeted ‘ownership’ of plots, when in fact the idea of own-
ership of plots had little meaning in the context of existing form of land
tenure in local society in Karnataka. This also applied to the establishment
of paṭṭadārs by the colonial administration. The collector divided land into
plots and made the person possessing the title deed of each plot the land
owner who was responsible for paying land tax. But, there was no corre-
sponding relationship between a plot and an exclusive owner, as the system
of land tenure in the locality was based on family groups.
We need to consider, however, the local practices of land tenure in more
detail before we discuss the division between ‘ownership’ and ‘control’. As we
will see from Chapter 10 onwards, in villages in rural South Kanara, it was
the matrilineal joint family (kuṭuma) as a whole that had joint rights over sev-
eral holdings. It was not that one landlord controlled a vast amount of land
registered under names of family members, as Pani assumes. The sub-group
160 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
of kuṭuma, kabarụ (Ka. kavalu), was the unit of exercising usufruct for each
holding, as well as managing and distributing land and its products. Such
form of land tenure makes not only the ‘ownership’ of each holding but also
the ‘rights to control’ of land owned by the kuṭuma unclear. As I will discuss
in more detail later, joint holding of land by the kuṭuma was intimately con-
nected to matrilineal inheritance and the succession of būta rituals in the
kuṭuma.

Transformation of land tenure in South Kanara

I have given an overview of the transformation of the land tenure in South
Kanara from the Āḷupa period through the colonial period to land reforms
after independence. In the wetlands of South Kanara where agriculture was
predominant, land and its products were important resources for the people
and income for the state treasury since the early Āḷupa period. Land also
connected various people and groups through donation, transfer, sale, and
lease. In the Vijayanagara period, types of land and land tax were classified
in detail, and land policies were developed including assessment of land tax.
The colonial introduction of the ryotwari system divided land, which had
plural and layered rights, into holdings, and tried to bring about a new one-
to-one relationship between each holding and its holder/tax payer. But in
South Kanara, the ryotwari system was changed to suit the existing system
of land tenure. Land tax assessment based on the unit of warg constituting
several holdings, and system of tax collection with the warg holder being the
tax payer was adopted. As a result, the existing form of land holding did not
undergo great change, and the rights of landlords were maintained. After
independence, South Kanara underwent two large-scale land reforms. But,
in spite of measures such as the establishment of maximum limit of land
holding and abolishment of leasing, the existing landlord class continued
to maintain their rights through various measures that gave them leeway.
In this way, various land policies were carried out in South Kanara from
the colonial period to after independence, but these did not lead to the col-
lapse or fundamental changes in the local system of land tenure. Hence we
also cannot unquestioningly presume changes or decline in būta rituals that
were closely connected to land holdings of landlords, as some previous stud-
ies suggest (Rajan 1986, p. 54; Gowda 1991, p. 18).
Enforcement of land policies by governments and their transformation
indeed had significant influence on land tenure in local society. However,
we should consider the entanglements and reflective relationships between
the traditional system and various measures carefully, rather than simply
seeing the measures as external forces that led to change and dismantling
of the traditional social system. Analyses I discussed in this chapter that
focus mainly on politico-economic aspects tend to overlook the relation-
ships between traditional system of land tenure, kinship organisation, and
local religious rituals, as well as the dynamics between them. In the case of
 Historical changes in land tenure 161
South Kanara, these relationships would be those between land tenure and
family organisation based on matriliny, and būta rituals. In Chapter 10, I
discuss the process of modernisation of matriliny in South Kanara since the
colonial period. I also analyse the people’s responses to the introduction of
new legal systems focusing on the attempts to divide inheritance of land in
the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

Notes
1 Paṭṭadār literally means the holder of land deed (paṭṭa) and refers to the land-
holder. However, as I will mention later, paṭṭadār (male) and paṭṭadārti (female)
among the Baṇṭa landlord class in South Kanara were not ‘land owners’ with
exclusive rights to land, but representatives of matrilineal joint families with
joint landholdings.
2 The period of beginning of Āḷupa rule is unclear. References to Āḷupa rulers
appear in inscriptions from the sixth century (Abhishankar 1973, pp. 37–38).
3 The Keḷadi clan emerged in the early sixteenth century. Keḷadi Nāyakas continued
to be feudatories of the Vijayanagara Empire even after the defeat of ­Vijayanagara
forces at the Battle of Rakkasa-Taṅgaḍi in 1565. In 1614, ­Veṅkaṭappa-nāyaka
I ­declared independence from the empire (Abhishankar 1973, p. 54; White 2015,
pp. 63, 92).
4 See also Bhatt (1975) for a history of South Kanara.
5 I refer to the person who held the land and was responsible for paying land tax as
the ‘landholder’. I also use the term ‘landholder’ interchangeably with paṭṭadār,
who paid land tax after the colonial period. In South Kanara, land was jointly
held by Baṇṭa matrilineal kin groups, and their representatives were registered
as paṭṭadārs. I distinguish between the ‘landholder’ and ‘landlord (guttu)’. Guttu
is the dominant class in village society and have ritual roles. (As I will show, the
landlords and landholders overlap. But not all landholders are guttus.)
6 According to Vasantha Madhava, Jain landlords exercised power in adminis-
trative districts called māgaṇe in the Vijayanagara period (Madhava 1984, p. 5).
However, during the rule of Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan, these Jains lost their
position as rulers and became simply landholders.
7 There are many references to the borders of land owned by guild organisations
in the inscriptions of this period. It was the duty of the managers of land donated
to temples to offer prescribed amounts of crop to the temple deities, irrespective
of good or bad harvest (Ramesh 1970, p. 288).
8 These titles are used today in Perar as names of būta priests and heads of land-
lord families.
9 Such a system can be called a ‘system of entitlements’ centred on the būta shrine
and guttu families, and is important for understanding the nature of landlords
in South Kanara. For details on system of entitlements, see Tanabe (2006).
10 Nāyaka was a title given to Chaudappa Gauda (1500–1540) of the Keḷadi clan by
the Vijayanagara king of the time (Abhishankar 1973, p. 54).
11 Madhava points out that in this period, some of the būtas were seen as ‘second-
ary deities’ and were demoted to the status of deities subservient to sīme deities.
At the same time, the form of būta rituals came to be influenced by Brahmanical
rituals (Madhava 1985, pp. 21–23, 143).
12 India Office Library and Records, London, Madras Revenue Consultations, 19
September 1800, pp. 2239–2248 (quoted in Stein [1989, pp. 67–68]).
13 Kanara is a region corresponding to Uttara Kannada, Udupi, and Dakshina
Kannada districts in the present state of Karnataka, and Kasaragod district in the
162 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
present state of Kerala. Munro’s term in Kanara was from July 1799 to October
1800 (Bradshaw 1894, p. 87). Kanara was divided into South and North in Decem-
ber 1800, but was reunited in 1805. It was governed as one of the collectorates in
the Madras Presidency until it was divided into North Kanara district and South
Kanara district in 1859 (Bhat 1998, pp. 4–8). North Kanara (except for Kundāpura
taluk, which was included in South Kanara district) was annexed to Bombay Pres-
idency in 1862, and South Kanara district was part of the Madras Presidency until
it was unified with the new Mysore state in the reorganisation of states in 1956.
Kasaragod taluk became part of the state of Kerala in 1956 (Abhishankar 1973,
pp. 4–5). In view of this history, I refer to the place of Munro’s posting as ‘Kanara’.
14 Zamindar refers to the ‘landlord’ defined by the zamindari system, the system
of land tenure and taxation introduced by Governor Cornwallis in Bengal Pres-
idency in 1793, and practised since then throughout the British colonial period
mainly in northern parts of India.
15 The word seems to have originated from the Sanskrit word varga, or Arabic word
warq, meaning leaf (Sturrock 1894, p. 118; Baden-Powell 1990 [1892], p. 147).
16 On the other hand, according to Damle, warg showed the revenue account of
each landholder, and this often included land of unknown size scattered in dif-
ferent villages and regions (Damle 1991, p. 158, note 15). Hence Damle points
out that it is not appropriate to refer to warg as ‘estate’. I will refer to warg as
holding. For details regarding warg, see also Bhat (1998, p. 85).
17 See Maclean (1877, pp. 99–101, 114–115) and Sturrock (1894, p. 118). For details
on surveys and assessments under the ryotwari system, see Baden-Powell (1907,
pp. 199–206).
18 In the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, the eldest woman of the matrilineal joint family
(kuṭuma) was registered as the paṭṭadārti.
19 ‘Memorandum Relative to Revenue Servants: Extracts of a Letter from A. Read
[then sub-collector in the CD under Munro] to Another Junior Colleague, James
Cochrane’. IOL, MC, F/151/10, f.95 (quoted by Stein [1989, p. 66]).
20 Bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa more accurately refers not to ‘state land’, but land which is not
tax-free.
21 Against Stein’s view, Chitnis (1974) points out the importance of the survey car-
ried out by Śivappa-nāyaka in the seventeenth century.
22 See Maclean (1987 [1885], p. 154; 1989 [1885], p. 64).
23 In 1831, peasants dissatisfied with heavy taxes broke out in a ‘no tax campaign’
in Kanara (Sturrock 1894, pp. 104–105; Abhishankar 1973, p. 68; Rao 1991; Bhat
1998, pp. 112–113).
24 Mudu Perar and Padu Perar were also surveyed in this period. The maps kept
today in public offices, such as the Deputy Commissioner’s office of Dakshina
Kannada and the panchayat office of Padu Perar, as maps of these two villages
are based on the lithograph originals marking land zones in 1893.
25 This document is basically a closed document kept in the archives of the Deputy
Commissioner’s office.
26 Pējāvara Mutt was registered twice as ‘Rama Vittla Matt of Pejawar’ under reg-
istration numbers 37 and 38. The name of a Brahman mūla gēṇi is registered
under number 38.
27 In SSRM, there are cases where the sex of the registered person is written after
the name of the paṭṭadārti, such as ‘Muṅḍabeṭṭu Poovu (female)’.
28 ‘Sanna Muṅḍabeṭṭu’ means the same as Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu, namely, the third guttu
family.
29 The state of Mysore was renamed the state of Karnataka on 1 November 1973
(Kamath 1982, p. 388). In 1997, South Kanara district (Dakshina Kannada) was
divided into present-day Udupi and Dakshina Kannada districts.
 Historical changes in land tenure 163
30 According to the Mysore Land Reforms Act, one acre of first-class irrigated land
was stipulated as the standard acre (Pani 1984, p. 48).
31 According to Thimmaiah and Aziz, the ‘land ceilings’ were cut down to 10
‘standard acres’ (Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983, p. 823), but I think they have mis-
taken it for 10 ‘units’. In the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, ‘a unit was de-
fined as land with a soil classification of above 8 annas and “having facilities for
assured irrigation from such Government Canals and Government Tanks as are
notified by the State Government to be capable of supplying water for growing
two crops of paddy in a year”’ (Pani 1984, pp. 48–49; emphasis added by Pani).
10 Modern law, customary law,
and the reflexive imagination

As seen in the previous chapter, since the colonial period, various land
­policies such as the ryotwari system and land reforms have been introduced
in South Kanara. Some of the main targets of these policies have been the
Baṇṭa landlords, whose land tenure and inheritance are based on the matri-
lineal system called the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ. Since the end of the nineteenth
century, the colonial judiciary recognised the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, which had
long regulated people’s practices concerning legal issues such as marriage
and inheritance, and came to reconstruct this system as modern law.
How, then, has the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ been reinterpreted by the modern
judiciary? How has its reinterpretation and redefinition influenced matriliny
in South Kanara? How is the modern system different from the customary
one, and how have the local people dealt with these differences? To answer
these questions, in this chapter I will investigate the modern judicature’s
evolving interpretation and (re)construction of matriliny in colonial and
postcolonial South Kanara and examine local practices of matriliny, focus-
ing on their relation to būta worship. As we will see later, people have sus-
tained and revitalised their own meaning of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ through
various practices as they have tried to cope with new legislation on matri-
liny. By analysing legal discourse and popular practices, I will bring into
view the reflexive imaginations of the modern judicature and of the local
people, which create and recreate the reality of matriliny in South Kanara.

The encounter between the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and modern law

The only distinctive custom of the Tulu people … is the Aliya Santana
rule of inheritance, which … means that the property of a family is
vested in the female line and descends from mother to daughter; but
as titles and dignities are vested in the males, and the management of
the property is also usually exercised by a brother, the line of descent
is ordinarily taken to be from the deceased holder to his sister’s son …
Division of property cannot be enforced, and is in fact forbidden, but
temporary arrangements for separate management are often made
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 165
for convenience, and by lapse of time become practically permanent
­ ivisions in many cases.
d
(Sturrock 1894, pp. 140–141)

J. Sturrock was a collector in the district of South Kanara in the Madras

Presidency, and his description of the matrilineal system, called the aḷiyas-
antāna kaṭṭụ, shows its essence as understood by the British colonial officers
of the time. It was understood both as a local ‘custom’ and as the system
governing the inheritance of family property. This British understanding of
the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ was not entirely wrong, but was very limited. Despite
their limitations, such interpretations of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ prevailed
in the law courts of South Kanara from the end of the nineteenth century
until the middle of the twentieth century. Moreover, through a complex in-
teraction of modern legal thought, the principle of stare decisis, and the
discourse/practice of both the judges and the local people, the aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ gradually transformed into a new system: Aliyasantana Law.
Below I investigate the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ with a focus on the issue of the
(in)divisibility of family property, which was one of the key issues during
the process of its modernisation and modification. Regarding the local term
‘matrilineal joint family’, I use the Kannaḍa term ‘kuṭumba’ when I refer to
official governmental practice or codification, while I use the corresponding
Tuḷu term ‘kuṭuma’ when I refer to local practice. While kuṭumba, which
has been used in legal discourse, emphasises the descendance and economic
functions of the matrilineal joint family, kuṭuma generally indicates the
­basic unit of kin who perform rituals together (see Upadhyaya 1988–1997,
p. 819). As we will see in this chapter, the kuṭuma under customary aḷiyas-
antāna kaṭṭụ is not only an economic unit but also a ritual community; it is
kin relations as well as everyday life-space. ­Moreover, it is the node of the
transactional network linking people, ­deities, land, and nature.

The Aliyasantana Law in colonial South Kanara

Bhat, who has investigated the various court cases concerning matriliny
in both South Kanara and Kerala, argues that the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ was
transformed into and established as modern personal law when the British
system of the judiciary and ownership of property came to be established
in India (2004, p. 5). The process of the transformation of the aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ from the mid-nineteenth century to the mid-twentieth century was
marked by the following significant developments: (1) the codification of the
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and the creation of the modern form of the Aliyasantana
system in the British Indian courts, (2) the enactment of the Madras Aliyas-
antana Act, 1949 (Act No. 9 of 1949), (3) the enactment of the Hindu Suc-
cession Act, 1956 (Act No. 30 of 1956), and (4) the enactment of the Madras
Aliyasantana (Mysore Amendment) Act, 1961 (Act No. 1 of 1962).
166 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Beginning, then, with the first phase, we should investigate the codifica-
tion process of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ by the British judges in colonial South
Kanara. From the middle of the nineteenth century to the beginning of the
twentieth century, British judges relied on a pamphlet known as ‘Bhuthala
Pandya’s Kattu Kattale’ as the primary source and authority on customary
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ. The pamphlet contains the story of Bhuthala Pandya as
well as the 14 kaṭṭụ and 16 kaṭṭalɛ (commandments) relating to the manage-
ment of matrilineal families. For example, it expounded on the management
of family property and the perpetuation of lineage through adoption.
The origins of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ narrated in the pamphlet are rather
mystical. According to the pamphlet, the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ was first intro-
duced around the year 77 CE by a despotic prince called Bhuthala Pandya,
the maternal nephew of a king called Deva Pandya, in order to supersede
the makkaḷa santāna (inheritance from father to son), which was then the
prevailing system in South Kanara. It is said that when Deva Pandya wanted
to launch his newly constructed ships, a būta king called Kundodara de-
manded a human sacrifice. The king asked his wife’s permission to offer one
of their seven sons, but she refused; his sister Satyavati then offered up her
son Jaya Pandya (later renamed Bhuthala Pandya). The būta saw a sign of
future greatness in the child and permitted the ships to sail without the sac-
rifice. Later, Kundodara demanded that the king bestow the wealth of the
kingdom on the same child, his sister’s son, Bhuthala Pandya. As the newly
enthroned king, Bhuthala Pandya ruled that inheritance in his kingdom
must be passed from maternal uncle to nephew, and thus the aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ was established in the first year of the Shalivahana Era, about 77 CE
(Rao 1898, pp. 7–8; Bhat 2004, pp. 6–7).
The pamphlet first attracted the notice of the courts in 1843, forming the
basis of the decision in Appeal Suit (A.S.) 82 of 1843. After this decision,
Bhuthala Pandya’s kaṭṭụ was frequently referred to by the local courts, and
in the early decisions of the High Court it was regarded as conclusive upon
the subject. In Munda Chetty v. Thimmaju Hengsu (1863), which considered
the question of the divisibility of aḷiyasantāna family property, the decision
relied entirely upon Bhuthala Pandya’s kaṭṭụ as ‘the work of authority’ (Rao
1898, p. 14).
Through this ruling, the right to the compulsory partition of aḷiyasantāna
family property was repudiated. This was upheld until the enactment of the
Madras Aliyasantana Act of 1949, even though the pamphlet had gradu-
ally come to be considered unreliable as a source of customary aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ (Rao 1898, pp. 14–15, 104–105; Bhat 2004, pp. 7–9).1
In the mid-nineteenth century, British judges began to codify the aḷiyas-
antāna kaṭṭụ, first by referring to Bhuthala Pandya’s kaṭṭụ as the ‘code’, and
then by reviewing court precedents. In this process, stare decisis in the courts
was determinative; in other words, precedents themselves constituted the law,
influencing subsequent decisions as well as people’s practice. Through this
reflexive interrelation between the law and practice, customary aḷiyasantāna
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 167
kaṭṭụ was transformed into the Aliyasantana Law. Simultaneously, in the
legal discourse, the local families following customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ
were reconstituted as legal entities, namely, the Aliyasantana families. In this
newly formed and authorised Aliyasantana Law, the following features were
distinctive: (1) the tracing of kinship in the female line and (2) the prohibition
of the compulsory division of family property (Rao 1898, p. 4).
Among these features, the second seems to be the more problematic, as
it engendered many disputes. The rule was inseparable from the ideal form
of the Aliyasantana family as imagined by the colonial judges, namely, that
‘the family presents a type of a joint family system, pure and simple, in its
most archaic form’ (Rao 1898, p. 78).
In the colonial courts, the unity of the Aliyasantana family and of its joint
property was pre-eminently valued and persistently declared. At the same
time, the rights of individual family members to the family property were
limited. One judge stated, ‘The preservation of the unity of the family is the
only effectual mode of securing to the members, severally a full share of the
beneficent enjoyment of the joint estate’ (Rao 1898, p. 6).2
Additionally, the Aliyasantana family was regarded as a unit controlled
by the most senior male or female member, called yajamāna/yajamāni (in the
masculine and feminine, respectively).3 The yajamāna/yajamāni was defined
by the judges as the head of the Aliyasantana family, and he or she had the
right and duty to manage the family members and their joint property. It
was regarded that their duty was primarily to protect the interests of the
entire family; hence, the yajamāna/yajamāni was unable to make alienations
of the immoveable property without the assent of the other family members
(see Rao 1898, pp. 61–65).
The judges’ privileging of the unity of the Aliyasantana family and of its
joint property then directed their decisions concerning the status of women
in the Aliyasantana family. According to Rao (1898, pp. 48–49), the perpet-
uation of lineage in the female line and the devolution of property to the
descendants of these women gave rise to the idea that women alone could be
the sole proprietors and that men have no more than the bare right of main-
tenance from the family property. Thus, at least until the end of the 1880s,
British judges tended to give priority to women with regard to yajamāna-
ship and rights to family property. For example, in 1863, Justices Frere and
Holloway declared that among the Aliyasantana families in their district,
‘females alone are recognised as the proprietors of the family estate’ and ‘all
rights to property are derived from females’ (Rao 1898, p. 58). Due to the
influence of this view, it was persistently maintained in the courts that the
yajamāni was ordinarily the most senior of the female members. This, how-
ever, does not mean that any woman could be privileged with proprietor-
ship; rather, the status of a woman was upheld only when she was approved
as the representative of an Aliyasantana family. Thus, while the law secured
the property rights of senior women representatives of Aliyasantana fami-
lies, it restricted the rights of ‘sterile’ women.4
168 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Through their reinterpretation of precedents, the colonial judges codified
the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and transformed it into modern personal law. In the
process, women were primarily regarded as the channel of succession as
well as the proprietors of the family property, though later the family prop-
erty was considered to be vested instead in the whole family. It was precisely
this united Aliyasantana family as legal entity that was created by the legal
discourse in colonial South Kanara and that continued to influence law in
the postcolonial era. The Madras Aliyasantana Act, 1949, inherited much
from the idea of the Aliyasantana system created in the colonial period.

Translating the ‘custom’

The kuṭumba in the Madras Aliyasantana Act

The Madras Aliyasantana Act was first published in the Fort St. George
Gazette on 26 April 1949. In this Act, the word ‘aḷiyasantāna’ was newly de-
fined, and some important terms concerning the Aliyasantana family were
formally renamed in the Kannaḍa language.
According to Definitions 3 of the Act, (a) ‘aḷiyasantāna’ denotes the system
of inheritance in which descent is traced in the female line, but does not in-
clude the system of inheritance known as the marumakkattāyam in Malabar;5
(b) i) ‘kavalu’, used in relation to a woman, means the group of persons consist-
ing of the woman herself, her children, and all her descendants in the female
line; (ii) ‘kavalu’, used in relation to a man, refers to the kavalu of the mother of
that man; (c) ‘kuṭumba’ means the group of persons forming a joint family with
a community of property governed by the Aliyasantana Law of inheritance;
(d) ‘nissaṃtati kavalu’ denotes a kavalu that is not a saṃtati kavalu; (e) ‘saṃtati
kavalu’ means a kavalu of which at least one member is a woman who has not
yet passed the age of 50 years; (f) ‘yajamāna’ means the oldest member, man or
woman, of a kuṭumba or kavalu, in whom the right to manage its properties
vest, or any other member or members in whom such right is vested by family
custom, contract, decree of Court or otherwise (Bhat 2004, p. 25).
Of the terms that were redefined, kavalu and kuṭumba are the most impor-
tant to this investigation. Kavalu originally meant ‘branch’ in K ­ annaḍa, but
in the context of the Madras Aliyasantana Act, it is defined as a s­ ub-division
of the kuṭumba. On the other hand, kuṭumba, which was referred to as the
Aliyasantana family by the colonial judges, was defined primarily as a
‘community of property’. No member should request his/her share of the
property of a kuṭumba by compulsory division. The kuṭumba, therefore,
was defined in the Madras Aliyasantana Act as a matrilineal descent group
whose members have common rights to the joint property. This definition
corresponded to the notion of matriliny, which had formed in the nineteenth
century (Bhat 2004, p. 32). Succeeding the definition and interpretation of
local practice by the colonial judicature, the Madras Aliya Santana Act was
designed to remould matriliny in South Kanara.
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 169
From ritual community to community of property
In conformity with the fact that the kuṭumba was defined as a community
of property, the Madras Aliyasantana Act assigned bookkeeping duties for
each kuṭumba to the yajamāna/yajamāni (Bhat 2004, pp. 65, 71). Indeed, in
the Act, the kuṭumba was primarily defined as an economic unit and the
yajamāna/yajamāni was regarded as the manager or trustee of its property.
Here, the economic function of the original kuṭuma was highlighted, but
was at the same time separated from its other functions. In the custom-
ary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, meanwhile, the head of the kuṭuma has had man-
agement responsibilities for not only family property but also būta rituals.
Next, I will briefly overview the relationship between the kuṭuma and būta
worship under the customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ.
In a kuṭuma, both the family property and būta shrine are inherited in
the female line. Among the deities worshipped in the kuṭuma, the kuṭumada
daiva (family būta) closely related to the house and land of the matrilin-
eal family is the one who grants the kuṭuma permission to use the land; at
the same time, the prosperity and reproduction of the kuṭuma are ensured
through the rituals for the būtas (see Claus 1991, p. 163). Part of resources
and products of the land are given back to these deities as offerings and then
distributed among the family members as prasāda.
The management of the property and resources of the kuṭuma is, there-
fore, not limited to the economic realm, but must be provided in relation to
the būtas, who determine the continuation and prosperity of the kuṭuma. In
this sense, the property and resources maintained by the kuṭuma are not in-
divisible family property (Bhat 2004, p. 91) over which the kuṭuma has exclu-
sive proprietorship, but rather they constitute a substance-code or divisible
person that circulates between people, deities, and nature (see Chapter 6).
Moreover, as a household inseparably related to its surroundings, and as
involved in the flow of substance-codes generated through everyday activ-
ities such as marriage, reproduction, nurture, and care, the kuṭuma itself
has been an important constituent of the transactional network (see Moore
1985; Fuller & Moore 1986).
Now it is clear why both the būta ritual and the property of the kuṭuma
are supposed to be maintained and inherited in the female line. Since it
is only the būta ritual that ensures the continuation and prosperity of the
kuṭuma, from the mythological past to the future, both must be passed
down through the women who link the generations. The kuṭuma, therefore,
should be first understood as a community of ritual, rather than as a com-
munity of property.6 Despite this close relationship between the kuṭuma and
būta worship, the religious function of the original kuṭuma was disregarded
in the Madras Aliyasantana Act, and it was redefined as an economic unit:
the kuṭumba. The head of the kuṭumba was likewise defined as only the
manager of the joint property, while his/her religious role was excluded from
the legal definition.
170 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
The property of the kuṭumba and its partition by kavalu
The definitions of terms such as kuṭumba, kavalu, and yajamāna in the
­ adras Aliyasantana Act were mostly in conformity with the concepts of
M
the Aliyasantana system formed in the colonial period. On the other hand,
the Act was epochal in that it gave the kavalus the right to claim a partition
of the family property.
While providing for the partition of family property, the Act made two
broad divisions: (1) one category for partition claims in families who had
remained undivided for four generations or more, and (2) another cate-
gory for those families who had not. Under the first category, the mode of
property division was three-quarters per capita among all the members of
the kuṭumba then living, and one-quarter per stirpes among the kavalus.
Regarding the second category, the mode of division was half per capita
among all the members of the kuṭumba, and half per stirpes among the
kavalus.7
Another key feature of the Act was its distinction between saṃtati kavalu
(which refers to a kavalu that contains at least one female member who is
not yet 50 years old) and nissaṃtati kavalu (which refers to a kavalu that has
no female member under the age of 50 years).8 The relevant provision of the
Act stated that if the kuṭumba had even one saṃtati kavalu, any nissaṃtati
kavalu in the kuṭumba would have only a life interest in the properties al-
lotted to it. Upon the death of the last member of the last nissaṃtati kavalu,
the life interest of that kavalu would then devolve upon the kuṭumba (Bhat
2004, pp. 117–120).
This classification of saṃtati and nissaṃtati kavalu actually meant a dis-
tinction between kavalus that still had a possibility of maintaining the mat-
rilineal line and those which did not. A nissaṃtati kavalu was regarded as
‘sterile’, and such a kavalu could not devise the properties allotted to it to
the next generation, because it had no matrilineal descendants. This fact
shows that in the Madras Aliyasantana Act, even though the partition of
family property by kavalu was approved, the property itself was still re-
garded as joint property that should be maintained within the matrilineal
descent group. This new legislation concerning the partition of the family
property presented challenges for the local guttus. Before investigating how
the guttus tried to cope with these challenges, I will consider in the next
section the changes in the modern judiciary’s recognition of the divisibility
of the kuṭumba and its property.

From dividual person to individual property?

The Madras Aliyasantana (Mysore Amendment) Act of 1961 revised the
1949 Act. In this Amendment Act, which was introduced as Act No. 1 of
1962 in the Mysore Legislature, it was declared that the living members
of the kuṭumba had the right to claim a partition of the family property.
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 171
Also, the per capita mode of division was extended to include voluntary
partition among the living members of a kuṭumba. Thus, the Amendment
Act approved the right of individual members to claim and use an allotment
of family property during their lifetimes.9 Additionally, the allotments of
each member were regarded as separate properties, which could be devised
to his/her descendants.
Since the nineteenth century, then, customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ has
been transformed into modern law by the colonial as well as the postco-
lonial judiciary. An analysis of this process reveals that the views of the
modern judiciary regarding the Aliyasantana system have gradually shifted
from those that strongly insisted on the indivisibility of the kuṭumba and its
joint property to those that affirmed the right, first of the kavalu and then of
individuals, to make claims for the partition of family property. This shift
may be interpreted as indicating an ideological change in the legal discourse
in South Kanara from the nineteenth to the twentieth century, namely, the
change from the construction and cementing of the Aliyasantana system
by the colonial judiciary to its gradual liberalisation by the postcolonial
judiciary.
On this point, the bench of the Madras High Court stated in 1955:

Before the establishment of Courts by the British Indian Government,

the customary law in this country contained in itself the mechanism of
change reflecting the principle of growth. Changing situations led to
changes in customs, and variations in the law and practice were effected
to keep pace with such changes. It was only the establishment of Courts
by the British Government with the principle of stare decisis that ar-
rested this process of natural growth.10

The bench also stated that such a solidification of the law had become in-
convenient to the community, ‘when individualism was expressing itself and
replacing the earlier concept of group-life and family entity’.11
As seen in this chapter, the establishment of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ as mod-
ern law also entailed defining the ideal form of matriliny and joint families
in South Kanara, such as aḷiyasantāna, kuṭumba, and kavalu. At the same
time, people’s practices came to be oriented and regulated by modern law.
As the bench of the Madras High Court pointed out, this may be interpreted
as a process of the reconstruction and solidification of the aḷiyasantāna
kaṭṭụ and the matrilineal joint family by modern law (cf. Jeffrey 2004/2005).
Moreover, if we consider the discussion in Chapter 6, the transition of the
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ might be understood this way: the kuṭuma—originally
part of the dividual persons linking people, deities, land, and nature—was
redefined by modern law, first as an indivisible community of property or
kuṭumba, and subsequently as separated from its property, when individu-
als were authorised as the proprietors of the divided family property and the
kuṭumba as a whole gradually dissolved.
172 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
It risks oversimplification, however, to take the matrilineal joint family
as only a community of property and to conclude that this community was
unilaterally constructed by colonial legal discourse and then deconstructed
by the postcolonial judicature. This attitude of evaluating the kuṭumba
merely by its economic function, an attitude shared by the colonial and
postcolonial judicature, tends to disregard another significant aspect, which
generates the actuality and communality of the matrilineal joint family: the
(spi)ritual aspect.
Unlike the kuṭumba defined by legal discourse as an indivisible community
of property, the kuṭuma under the customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ had, and
still has, multiple facets: it is an economic as well as a ritual community; it is
kin relations as well as life-space; and it is a component of the transactional
network linking people, deities, land, and nature. Needless to say, this mul-
tiplicity of the kuṭuma has not been unilaterally constructed by modern law,
and hence it cannot be easily dissolved by transitions in law. It is therefore
necessary to consider the difference and reflexive relationship between the
kuṭumba, whose unity can indeed be shaken by legal change, and the kuṭuma,
which can be maintained as a multiple community despite such change.
The above investigation clarifies that when we consider the transformation
of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ in South Kanara, it is not appropriate to assume
a unilateral transformation of customary law into modern law. ­Neither is
it appropriate to assume that the process of modernisation after independ-
ence has somehow rectified the ‘biased’ colonial-period views that led the
colonial judicature to create the Aliyasantana Law and the ideal family, the
kuṭumba, as an ‘archaic form of matriliny’ (Rao 1898).
Throughout the colonial and postcolonial period, the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ
has been reconstructed as modern law, and its definition and interpreta-
tion by the modern judicature has oriented people’s practices. The legal dis-
course, however, has focused on and regulated only a limited part of the
vast phenomena related to the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ. While coping with new
legislation, people have maintained various practices that have never been
regulated fully by modern law. The aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and kuṭuma for the
local people have certainly been partially reconstructed by modern law, yet
they have never been identical to those defined by modern law. With this
discrepancy and ambivalence, people have experienced the transitions in
law and have reflexively (re)created the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and kuṭuma for
themselves. Next, I will investigate people’s practices concerning the tran-
sition in the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, focusing on the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in Perar
from the early- to mid-twentieth century.

Under the enactment and amendment of modern law

Since the nineteenth century, customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ in South Kanara
has been reconstituted as modern law, and the modern judiciary has defined
important terms concerning the matrilineal family. In the succession of the
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 173
enactment and amendment of laws, how have the local people practised the
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, and how have their practices transformed? To answer
these questions, focusing on the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, I will first investigate
people’s understanding of the customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ, which has been
formed and practised historically. The guttu’s interpretation and practice
of the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ mostly correspond to the modern Aliyasantana
Law, yet they remain partially distinct, most remarkably in that the aḷiyas-
antāna kaṭṭụ and būta worship are inseparable in their practice. I will then
examine the partition plan of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu’s family land, which
was designed in the 1950s. Through these investigations, I will show how the
people have understood and practised their kaṭṭụ, while also coping with
modern law.

Kuṭuma, pergaḍe, and būta worship

I will first elucidate the customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ practised among the
guttus, based on interviews with the core members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.
The matrilineal joint family is called kuṭuma. Descent is based on the fe-
male line, and a kuṭuma is composed of several sub-groups called kabarụ.12
In the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, there are three major kabarụs in the kuṭuma, and
these are regarded as the original kabarụs descended from three female
ancestors. The ordinary kabarụs, which each consists of a mother and her
matrilineal descendants, are generally called oṅjappa jōkulu (‘one moth-
er’s children’) or ula kabarụ (‘sub-kabarụ’). Hereafter, I refer to the three
original kabarụs as the ‘major kabarụs’ and the ordinary kabarụs simply as
‘kabarụs’.
In the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, while only female members can act as the ful-
crum for descent and any bifurcation of the kabarụ, in most cases a senior
male member has been selected as pergaḍe (the head of the family), who is
responsible for the management of the joint property and būta worship in
the kuṭuma. The title of the pergaḍe is generally succeeded from mother’s
brother to sister’s son.
Customarily, the management of family land was entrusted to the pergaḍe,
who distributed agricultural products to the other members. Therefore, the
family land could be neither divided nor registered as private property. In
such a situation, in the beginning of the twentieth century when the govern-
ment requested the kuṭuma to register a representative/taxpayer of the joint
property at the Revenue Board, it was the most senior female members who
were selected as paṭṭadārti (see Chapter 9). When registration started, it was
necessary not only for the kuṭuma but also for each kabarụ to register a rep-
resentative of its joint property (land called ‘land from grandfather’, as dis-
cussed later). It was again the most senior female member who was selected
as the representative of her kabarụ’s land ownership. In addition, as we will
see, in the beginning of the 1950s when the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu attempted
to partition the joint property, female members were given land rights that
174 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
could be passed down to their matrilineal descendants, while male members
were given land rights only for their lifetime.
For the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, the continuation of the kuṭuma in the female
line has thus been vital: female members have been regarded as the axis of
succession for both the family land and būta worship, while senior male
members have taken on the role of managers of the joint property and ritu-
als in the kuṭuma.13

The land tenure of the kuṭuma and kabarụ

In Perar, the land held by villagers under the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ is classified
into three categories: (1) family land, (2) purchased land, and (3) land ac-
quired through land reforms. Moreover, among the guttu families, ‘family
land’ is further classified into two subcategories: (a) traditional family land
(kuṭumada būmi) and (b) land purchased by a member of the kuṭuma (ajjer-
erụdụ baidena: ‘land from grandfather’, hereafter, ‘grandfather’s land’).
Among these subcategories, the traditional family land is the land that
is believed to have been passed down for centuries in the female line. In a
guttu family, the pergaḍe is in charge of the management of this kind of land,
while all the members of the kuṭuma potentially have rights to it. Unlike this
traditional family land, ‘grandfather’s land’ is land that was purchased by a
male member of the kuṭuma in the past. Unless it has been registered in the
name of the purchaser and also legally inherited by his children, this land
is customarily inherited by his sisters and their matrilineal descendants. In
other words, after the death of the purchaser, ‘grandfather’s land’ becomes
part of the joint property of his mother’s kabarụ. Unlike traditional family
land, in which all the kuṭuma members have potential ownership, in the case
of ‘grandfather’s land’, the range of kin who have rights to it is limited to the
members of the purchaser’s mother’s kabarụ. Therefore, as we will see later,
‘grandfather’s land’ has been the main subject of dispute and negotiation
among the people, as they try to cope with modern law and sustain their
land rights.
As already seen, the Madras Aliyasantana Act was enacted in 1949 and
the Hindu Succession Act was enacted in 1956. In addition, in the 1950s the
government started preparations for the legislation of the land reforms. In
this situation, to retain the land rights of the entire family, the core members
of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu planned to divide and register both the family land
of the kuṭuma and the ‘grandfather’s land’ belonging to each kabarụ. I will
next examine the partition plan of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

A partition plan for the kuṭuma land

The Madras Aliyasantana Act approved for the first time the partition of
­family property by the kabarụ. We now turn to the struggle of the leaders of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu as they tried to cope with this legislation. Needless to say,
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 175
it proved very difficult to divide the joint property properly and to c­ alculate
the appropriate allotment to each kabarụ—and the larger the kuṭuma, the
more problematic the task. In a judgement on one dispute over the partition
of family property, Judge Govinda Menon addressed this difficulty:

At the very outset one has to marvel at the phenomenally large num-
ber of shares into which the properties are to be divided and the al-
lotment of the various shares to the respective sharers. It is stated that
this state of things is the necessary result of the working of the Madras
­A liyasantana Act, 1949 … by which the division of the properties is to
be in a very complicated manner. It would require the skill of statisti-
cians and mathematicians to work out the figures properly …14

In the case of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in Perar, it was Muttaya Shetty and
some other ‘elite’ members of his kuṭuma who planned to complete this
complicated task. Muttaya Shetty (1879–1952) attained the status of pergaḍe
of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, succeeding his mother’s brother, Ishwara Shetty,
in the late 1930s. A few years prior to his death, Muttaya started to plan
for the partition of the family property. He drafted an elaborate plan of the
partition and managed to complete a survey of the family land. However,
his plan was never carried out because of disagreement among the family
members about the allotment and because of Muttaya’s death. His plan was
written down in Kannaḍa in 1954 and copies of it have been kept carefully
by some senior family members as the ‘authority’ on the land proprietorship
of each kabarụ. Next, we turn to the details of this unrealised plan.
In 1950, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu held a total of 79 acres of paddy fields,
which could yield 600 muḍi gēṇi of paddy15 per year, as well as a total of 83
acres of forest. Muttaya Shetty planned to divide the paddy field based not
on its size but on crop yields. He planned to divide half of the 600 muḍi gēṇi
fields by ‘janasaṅkyɛpālụ’ (division by population) and half by ‘kabarụpālụ’
(division by kabarụ).16 This plan actually corresponds to the mode of divi-
sion of family property under the second category of the Madras Aliyasan-
tana Act: half per capita and half per stirpes.
Basically following the prescription of the Act, Muttaya Shetty made the
rules of division as follows: (1) in the case of janasaṅkyɛpālụ, 300 muḍi gēṇi
fields should be divided up according to the number of people in the kuṭuma
(at the time, the kuṭuma had 231 living members). The total sum of the al-
lotments for the members of a kabarụ should be allotted to that kabarụ.
Here, the base point of each kabarụ should belong to the same generation
as Muttaya Shetty and could be either male or female. A woman who is
both the base point and representative of her kabarụ would receive the to-
tal sum of the allotments for her and for the other members of her kabarụ
(i.e. her matrilineal descendants). If the kabarụ consists of only a man, he
can enjoy his allotment only for his lifetime; after his death, the property
should be handed over to one of his sisters’ kabarụs. (2) On the other hand,
176 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
in the mode of kabarụpālụ, the other 300 muḍi gēṇi fields should be divided
equally among all 21 kabarụs of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. Again, if a kabarụ
consists of only a man, after his death the allotment for that kabarụ should
be devised to one of his sisters’ kabarụs.
Muttaya Shetty not only envisioned the above rules of division but even
calculated the actual allotment of paddy fields and forest for each kabarụ.
He also arranged allotments from A-schedule to W-schedule (see Table 10.1).
Here, it is noteworthy that the allotments for the family shrines worshipped
by two major kabarụs headed the lists of those schedules. Muttaya Shetty
allotted 17 muḍi gēṇi for one shrine and 6 muḍi, 1 kaḷasɛ, and 7 sērụ for the
other; he made these allotments as the A-schedule and B-schedule.
As this suggests, Muttaya’s plan itself was actually originally designed for
the smooth maintenance of būta worship in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. That is,
Muttaya Shetty and other senior members tried to secure the resources nec-
essary for the family shrines by keeping part of the family property for those
shrines. In the preface of Muttaya’s written plan, this was explicitly stated:

Following the Aliyasantana Law and the decision of the kuṭuma, here
we shall divide the land of this house. All the rituals should be main-
tained without any suspension. The A-schedule and the B-schedule
properties should be appropriated for the expenditure on the family
shrines …

As seen in Table 10.1, his plan and calculations were very elaborate and com-
prehensive. He paid careful attention to each kabarụ’s economic conditions
as well as to the relationships among the family members in order to make
the allotment as equal as possible for every member. If this plan had been
carried out, the proprietorship over the family property of each kabarụ to-
day would be clearer and each kabarụ might be more independent of one an-
other. However, in actuality the plan miscarried and the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
has through today kept its family property undivided. As a result, both the
actual form and the members’ image of the kuṭuma of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
have, in a sense, remained as those of the pre-Aliyasantana Act.
In addition to the miscarriage of Muttaya’s plan, there was another fac-
tor that obstructed the partition of the family property of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu. At the time of Muttaya Shetty, three senior women (two called An-
thakke and one called Rukku) were selected as the representatives of each of
the major kabarụs and were registered as paṭṭadārti at the Revenue Board.17
Within just one or two generations after these three women, however, the suc-
cession and registration of paṭṭadārti stopped. This means, because nobody
was registered after them, the names of the last successors—all of whom
have already died—have become ‘frozen’ as the registered paṭṭadārti of the
family property. Because of the un-renewed registration of the paṭṭadārti,
each living member’s right to the family property has become highly ob-
scure. In such conditions, as we will see in the next chapter, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
  uṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family property partition plan
Table 10.1 M

Schedule Representative of kabarụ Gender Population Yield of paddy Area of paddy Area of Total Supplementary
of rep. of kabarụ (muḍi. kaḷasɛ. fields (acres. forest area information
sērụ) cents) (acres. (acres.
cents) cents)

A Mudu Perar family shrine – 17 1.64 0 1.64 Family shrine

B Badakare family shrine – 6.1.7 0.67 0 0.67 Family shrine
C Sesamma f 31 55.1.3 8.21 8.38 16.59
D Lakshmi f 9 28.2.6 4.93 4.97 9.9
E Thungu f 25 48 6.02 9.94 15.96
F Subbaya Shetty m 22 44.1.8 3.82 5.39 9.21 Subbaya represents his
mother.
G Kinchanna Hegde m 1 12 1.63 0 1.63 Upon the death of
Kinchanna, the land
will devolve upon E.
H Vāchanna Hegde m 1 12 1.7 0 1.7 Upon the death of
Vāchanna, the land will
devolve upon F.
I Mundappu f 9 22.11 2.52 2.24 4.76
J Somakke f 8 21.0.5 2.77 3.07 5.84
K Chinna Kājava m 1 13 1.38 0.04 1.42 Upon the death of
Chinna, 1 acre 18 cents
will devolve upon I and
20 cents will devolve
upon J.
L Anthakke f 16 36.0.13 6.68 6.47 13.15
M Pōvakke f 29 51.0.10 7.36 11.8 19.16
N Muttu f 14 28.0.1 5.46 15.92 21.38

(Continued)
Schedule Representative of kabarụ Gender Population Yield of paddy Area of paddy Area of Total Supplementary
of rep. of kabarụ (muḍi. kaḷasɛ. fields (acres. forest area information
sērụ) cents) (acres. (acres.
cents) cents)

O Rukkayya Shetty m 1 13 1.47 0 1.47 Upon the death of

Rukkayya, 55 cents will
devolve upon Q and
92 cents will devolve
upon P.
P Koropalu f 11 24.1.10 2.97 2.19 5.16
Q Dhiramma f 15 29.0.7 3.65 4.41 8.06
R Rādhamma f 9 22.0.11 2.45 0.69 3.14
S Subbaya Naik m 1 13 1.28 0 1.28 Upon the death of
Subbaya, the land will
devolve upon R and N.
T Thungu f 11 32.1.5 4.17 2.2 6.37
U Anthakke f 4 19.2.7 2.7 2.28 4.98
V Ramanna Semita m 12 34.0.11 3.65 2.66 6.31 Ramanna represents his
sisters.
W Vittal Shetty m 1 14.1.4 1.75 0 1.75 Upon the death of Vittal,
90 cents will devolve
upon V and 80 cents
will devolve upon U.
The other 70 cents will
devolve upon T.
Total 593muḍi 21 78.88 82.65 161.53
kaḷasɛ
108sērụ
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 179
guttu has since 1974 also dealt with the legislation of the Karnataka Land
Reforms (Amendment) Act. Before considering this issue, however, next I
will examine the partition plan of the ‘grandfather’s land’ of a kabarụ in the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

Following the kuṭuma, coping with modern law

As discussed above, ‘grandfather’s land’ is the land previously purchased
by one of the matrilineal family members. The land is generally inherited
to the purchaser’s sisters and thus becomes part of the joint property of
his mother’s kabarụ. Below, I will examine the case of the division of the
‘grandfather’s land’ purchased by the maternal uncle of Ishwara Shetty, the
pergaḍe of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu prior to Muttaya Shetty.
According to Harish Shetty, one of the core members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu, the maternal uncle of Ishwara Shetty was originally the mūla gēṇi of
the Pējāvara Mutt. As we will see in the next chapter, mūla gēṇi refers to
an ‘original tenant’ who has cultivated some particular land for generations
and has relatively strong rights to the land compared with ordinary tenants.
The uncle paid some amount of money to the matha and gained ownership
(mūla hakkụ) of the land. After his death, this land was inherited by one of
his sisters, Ishwara Shetty’s mother. The partition plan for this land arose for
Ishwara Shetty’s sisters’ children’s generation. Ishwara Shetty had three sis-
ters, Rukku, Muttu, and Munjappu. Munjappu had no child, so only the de-
scendants of Rukku and Muttu were concerned regarding land inheritance.
In 1949, this land was divided and inherited by the kabarụs of their daugh-
ters: Rukku’s daughters Sesamma, Kusamma, and Anthakke; and Muttu’s
daughter Lakshmi. Based on the janasaṅkyɛpālụ (division by population),
each woman gained an allotment for her and her matrilineal descendants.
The partition of the land, however, did not go smoothly. Before the land
was divided and inherited by these four kabarụs, Antappa Shetty, who was
the eldest son of Rukku, contrived to register this land in the name of his wife.
If the land were registered in the name of Antappa’s wife, no other descend-
ants of Rukku and Muttu could execute any rights to it. Against this scheme,
however, Sesamma’s husband objected strongly, and the land partition and
inheritance to the four women’s kabarụs was carried out. At the time of reg-
istration, a photograph of the four women, their husbands, and their children
was taken for ‘proof’ that should prevent any further trouble concerning the
land. The land purchased by the matrilineal uncle of Ishwara Shetty was thus
finally partitioned and registered in the name of the four women.
As seen above, since the 1950s, members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu endeav-
oured to partition and inherit the joint property of the kuṭuma. This was
an attempt to confirm each member’s rights in the allotment, and to avoid
disputes among kin over the land. The partition and registration of the tra-
ditional family land, however, was never accomplished and the land rights
of each member remain highly ambiguous. Meanwhile, in the case of the
180 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
‘grandfather’s land’, land partition and registration has been executed, but
this was often accompanied by conflict among kin. The reason the ‘grand-
father’s land’ could be partitioned successfully was that the land belonged
solely to the purchaser’s mother’s kabarụ, and thus the number of kin con-
cerned with this land inheritance was limited.
As explored above, modern law after independence has compelled the mem-
bers of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu to verify their land rights in conformity with
modern law. For this purpose, it became necessary for them to understand
every aspect of the joint property, to calculate the value of each plot, and to
compare them to each other. In addition, as shown in Muttaya Shetty’s plan, in
order to allocate plots appropriately to each member of the kuṭuma, it was nec-
essary to confirm the genealogy of the kuṭuma, to group the kabarụs clearly,
and to redefine each individual’s position in the kuṭuma. In this sense, the par-
tition plan of the joint family property was the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu’s endeavour
to reorganise both the kuṭuma and its property in relation to each other.
The Madras Aliyasantana Act, therefore, did not simply redefine and
stipulate the customary aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ. Rather, it compelled people to
reconstruct and substantialise the category of matrilineal family and the
proprietorship of each group and individual in conformity with modern law.
In the case of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, however, the partition plan for the tra-
ditional family land has not been accomplished, and the land rights of the
kuṭuma members have remained obscure. Consequently, in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu, modern law has not really promoted the distribution of the joint prop-
erty or the division of the kabarụs; indeed, the ‘wholeness’ of the kuṭuma as
a multiple community is still maintained today (see Ishii 2014b).
For the kuṭuma members, this has a double meaning: the kuṭuma as a
multiple community, which is based on vast family land and būta worship,
is the ideal form of the kuṭuma as the basis and core of their lives. At the
same time, since the joint property has never been partitioned, no member
can fully exercise his/her right to an allotment. Thus, in between duty to
the kuṭuma and ambitions for individual rights, people have taken various
measures to cope with problems concerning land proprietorship. Especially
when the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act was enacted in 1974,
the landowners—most of them actually just the representatives or manag-
ers of part of the family land—strived to establish their land rights. In the
next chapter, I will investigate people’s various efforts regarding these Land
Reforms, focusing on the relations between the tenants and the landowner.

Notes
1 From the 1880s, several judges began to convey their doubts about the authority
of Bhuthala Pandya’s kaṭṭụ, owing to the influence of Arthur Coke Burnell’s
criticism of the pamphlet. Burnell was the Judge of the District Court from 1872
to 1874 and was the author of the first English book on būta worship (Navada &
Fernandes 2008).
2 Subba Hegade v. Tongu, (1869) 4 Madras High Court Reports, 196.
 Laws and the reflexive imagination 181
3 Yajamāna and yajamāni are the Kannaḍa words equivalent to yajamāne and ya-
jamāni in Tuḷu, respectively.
4 For instance, in the court case held at the Madras High Court in 1890, the
bench judged that a lunatic woman, Puttamma, who was the last survivor of
an Aliyasantana family, should be entitled to the family property, rejecting
the appeal of the wife and children of the last male survivor of Puttamma’s
family (Sanku v. Puttamma, 1891, Indian Law Reporter 14, Madras, 289).
Also, in a court case held in 1910, the judge stated that it was reasonable to
remove the elder sister, who had only one son, from the position of yajamāni
and instead appoint the younger sister who had numerous children, from the
viewpoint of family interests (Thimmakke v. Akku, 1911, Indian Law Re-
porter 34, Madras, 481).
5 Most research on matriliny in South India has dealt with marumakkattāyam,
the form of matriliny that prevailed among the Nayars in Kerala. In both the
academic literature and legal documents, the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ in South Ka-
nara has often been defined through a comparison with marumakkattāyam,
as its ‘sister system’ (Bhat 2004, p. 11). It is generally considered that in both
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ and marumakkattāyam, descent is traced in the female
line. Also, the basic unit in the matrilineal society is the joint family called
taṟavāṭŭ in Malayāḷam, kuṭumba in Kannaḍa, and kuṭuma in Tuḷu (see Gough
1952, p. 72).
6 See Moore (1985, p. 531) and Menon (1993) on the case in Malabar. It is also
believed that if the kuṭuma do not conduct the būta ritual properly, the family
members who are responsible for the ritual must suffer the curse of the būtas.
7 When the Madras Aliyasantana Act was enacted in 1949, it was determined that
this Act would remain in effect for 15 years and that from that point forward
the per stirpes mode of division would be applied uniformly. In 1962, however,
the Madras Aliyasantana (Mysore Amendment) Act, 1961, was enacted, and the
mode of division was changed to per capita.
8 In Kannaḍa, saṃtati means ‘group’, ‘offspring’, and ‘lineage’, while nissaṃtati
means ‘childless’. See Učida and Rajapurohit (2013, pp. 589, 897).
9 Prior to this Amendment Act, the Hindu Succession Act was enacted in 1956. In
the Hindu Succession Act, it was declared that when a member of a kuṭumba or
kavalu who had rights to the undivided family property died, his/her allotment
should be what the person would have received if the per capita mode of division
had been accomplished just before his/her death; also, the allotment of the de-
ceased person should be succeeded to his/her descendants whether he/she was a
member of a nissaṃtati kavalu or not. In the Hindu Succession Act, even though
the heirs of the deceased person could be entitled to the predecessor’s allotment,
the person concerned could not enjoy his/her allotment during his/her lifetime.
See Bhat (2004, pp. 127–128).
10 Santhamma v. Neelamma, (1956) All India Reporter, Madras, 642.
11 Similarly, Bhat pointed out that people’s rights in family property had been in-
dividualised by the amendment of law, and that under the recent social and eco-
nomic change, the ‘traditional Aliyasantana law is on the wane’ (2004, pp. 164,
189).
12 Kabarụ is the Tuḷu word equivalent to kavalu in Kannaḍa.
13 The manager of the būta ritual at the family level is called the malpāvunāye,
while the one at the village level is called the tūvonunaye.
14 Kaveri v. Ganga Ratna, (1956) 1 Madras Law Journal, 98.
15 ‘Muḍi gēṇi’ is a unit of the weight of paddy paid as rent. One muḍi is approxi-
mately 39.2 kg (1 muḍi corresponds to 3 kaḷasɛ or to 42 sērụ). In the above case,
the total weight of paddy that the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu got yearly from all the ten-
ants/cultivators was 600 muḍi (approximately 23,520 kg).
182 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
16 This system for the partition of family property is not unique to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu, but is popular among the Baṇṭa families in Perar even today.
17 Anthakke, from the first major kabarụ, was the sister of Muttaya Shetty, and
Rukku, from the second major kabarụ, was the sister of Ishwara Shetty. Accord-
ing to the records of land registration (paṭṭɛ) kept in the Deputy Commissioner’s
Office, Anthakke from the first major kabarụ and another Anthakke from the
third major kabarụ were registered as paṭṭadārti, in 1938 and 1950, respectively.
11 Land reforms and deities as the
‘owners of land’

As we have seen up to the previous chapter, various laws and policies on land
tenure and matrilineal joint families were effected in South Kanara from
the colonial to post-independence periods, and the people were required
to respond to these measures. By contending with the new measures, the
people reorganised the traditional systems of matriliny, land tenure, and the
joint family or kuṭuma. At the same time, however, they engaged in practices
which did not necessarily adhere to the definitions of ‘Aliyasantana system’,
‘kuṭumba’, and ‘land ownership’ under modern law. In this sense, there was a
reflexive interrelation, as well as slippage and mutual tension, between legal
and political measures pertaining to the Aliyasantana system, land tenure,
and joint family on the one hand, and the people’s practices on the other.
As we saw in Chapter 9, from the time of introduction of the ryotwari
system to the enactment of the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act
in 1974, most of the rights of existing landlords remained intact in South
Kanara in spite of execution of various land policies. In order to understand
the reasons for this more fully, we need to analyse the land reforms and the
continued rights of the landlords not only from a politico-economic per-
spective, as we have done in Chapter 9, but also from the viewpoint of peo-
ple’s practices at the micro level. Focusing on the people’s practices leads us
to ask the following questions: what was the relationship between landlords,
who had privileged rights to management and control of land based on ex-
ecution of būta rituals, and other farmers? How were the būtas, intimately
linked to land and nature as the ‘owners of land’, intertwined with people’s
practices concerning land reform?
In this chapter, I focus on the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment)
Act of 1974, and examine negotiations between landlords and tenants over
land rights, as well as people’s attempts to maintain or gain land rights by
taking up cases in Mudu Perar. First, I will give an outline of tenants and
domestic labourers in the village. I will also reconstruct an approximation
of caste constitution of landlords, tenants, and domestic labourers before
land reform, based on results of the household survey I conducted. Next,
I will analyse the characteristics of land tenure and inheritance pattern of
matrilineal families, focusing on cases of Baṇṭa landlords. Last, I will dis-
cuss concrete instances of how the landlords dealt with land reforms, and
184 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
how būta rituals were involved in negotiations and conflicts between land-
lords and tenants over land rights.

Tenants and domestic labourers in Perar

Two types of tenants: mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi

In Perar prior to land reform, people who worked on the landlords’ land
were collectively called okkelụ. They were further divided into two catego-
ries, gēṇi okkelụ and kāli okkelụ. Gēṇi okkelụ referred to ‘tenants’, who cul-
tivated land rented from landlords, and paid the landlords farm rent (gēṇi)
in the form of rice. Kāli okkelụ were ‘domestic labourers’, who lived on the
landlords’ land, engaged in farm work, took care of cattle, and so on.
Gēṇi okkelụ were further divided into mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi.1 Mūla gēṇi
meant ‘old-time/original tenants’ and referred to families of tenants work-
ing on particular land over several generations. Landlords could not drive
out mūla gēṇi or exchange them for other tenants. The tenant rights of mūla
gēṇi were stable and hereditary, unlike those of cāla gēṇi.2 Cāla gēṇi were
‘mobile tenants’, who had gained tenant land relatively recently and were
employed on the basis of annual or seasonal contracts. The landlords could
change the rent or evict them. The majority of tenants working on landlords’
land before land reform in Perar were cāla gēṇi.3

Domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ)

Domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ) lived on the landlords’ estates and per-
formed a variety of work, including farming, taking care of cattle, collecting
fodder, and managing forests. Unlike tenants (gēṇi okkelụ), who cultivated
landlords’ land and paid the landlords a part of the produce as land rent,
domestic labourers could not gain products of the land they cultivated
themselves; hence, they did not pay landlords any land rent. Landlords are
said to have given around 1–2 kilograms of rice per day for a family of five
to six persons as payment for the work of domestic labourers.4 Domestic
labourers and their families were provided housing on the outskirts of a
landlord’s estate or in forests owned by a landlord. These were usually very
humble dwellings with mud walls and thatched roofs. One house was shared
by about five families with one family occupying a single room each. Such
houses often collapsed during the monsoon season, and labourers were
sometimes made to live in the landlords’ cowsheds.
After the enforcement of land reforms from around 1977 to the 1980s,
many domestic labourers and their families moved to small plots of land 5
cents in size provided by the government and became daily wage labourers.
Some families, however, continued to live in their homes on the landlords’
land after this period because they could not afford to buy a plot of land for
5 cents and build a house there.
 Land reforms and deities 185
Land reforms in village society: registration records of
application of land rights
In this section, I will give an overview of the application of land rights in
Mudu Perar based on administrative records at the time of land reforms
preserved in the Deputy Commissioner’s office in Mangaluru. The records
I refer to are those documented in the Villagewar Resister of Applications
Filed under Section 48-A before the Tribunal (VRA) submitted to land tribu-
nals between 1974 and 1979.
According to VRA, there were 379 applications in total for land in Mudu
Perar between 1974 and 1979, and the total area applied for was 918.08 acres.5
The majority of applicants were Muslims, constituting half of the total. This
corresponds to the fact that a mosque constituted the most numerous type
of landlord (a total of 149 cases) (Table 11.1). In VRA, we find many cases of
inhabitants of the Muslim residential area, Guru Kambuḷa, applying for a
part of the holding of the mosque located there from the end of 1975 to 1979.

Table 11.1 Types of applicants and landlords

Type Number

Applicants Muslim 189

Christian 55
Pūjāri 35
Baṇṭa 30*
Kuḍubi 27
Unknown 14
Moyli 8
Brahman 7
Ācāri 7
Other Hindus 3
Baṇḍāri 1
Dēvaḍige 1
Konkani 1
SC 1
Total 379
Landlords Mosque 149
Baṇṭa 92
Muslim 41
Temple/mutt 26
Unknown 22
Christian 13
Brahman 12
Catholic church 11
Konkani 8
Other Hindus 2
Kuḍubi 1
Pūjāri 1
Moyli 1
Total 379

* Ten of these are members of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

186 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Table 11.2 T
 ypes of Baṇṭa landlords

Baṇṭa landlord family Number

Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 43
Other Baṇṭa 36
Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu 7
Alakɛ guttu 6
Total 92

In most cases, the inhabitants each applied for a very small plot of land, less
than 1 acre. Hence we see that in this period, vast land owned by the mosque
was distributed to Muslim households in Guru Kambuḷa. In the same way,
we see from Table 11.1 that land owned by temples, mutts, and Catholic
churches, such as Sri Venkatramana Temple and Pējāvara Mutt, were also
distributed to tenants through land reforms.6
The second most numerous landlords were the Baṇṭa (92 cases). As we
see in Table 11.2, 43 families were the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, followed by other
Baṇṭa (36 cases), the third guttu house Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu (7 cases), and
the fifth guttu house Alakɛ guttu (6 cases). Hence, it seems that among land-
lords, excluding religious institutions, the Baṇṭa, particularly those of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, were greatly affected by land reform.
Interestingly, however, there were comparatively more Baṇṭa applicants
for land rights (30 cases) of which 10 belonged to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu fam-
ily. From this, we note that though the land reforms led to transfer of land
from landlords to tenants to some extent, village landlords/landed farm-
ers also tried to establish their land rights by applying to land tribunals,
and transferred land among themselves. Moreover, if we look at the details
of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu’s holdings that were subject to applications, the
most numerous were land purchased by a member of the matrilineal family,
called ‘grandfather’s land’, constituting 21 out of 43 cases (Table 11.3). This
indicates that not only did tenants acquire ‘grandfather’s land’, but mem-
bers of the sub-matrilineal joint family (kabarụ), who collectively owned the
land, also applied for rights over this type of land.

Table 11.3 T
 ypes of land applied for rights
in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu

Type of land Number

‘Grandfather’s land’ 21
Traditional family land 12
Purchased farmland 10
Total 43
 Land reforms and deities 187
Group composition of landlords, tenants, and domestic
labourers in Mudu Perar
What kinds of people, then, were landlords, tenants, and domestic labourers
in Perar before land reform? In this section, I reconstruct an approximation of
the group composition of each of these three categories, and examine their de-
tails based on the door-to-door household survey I conducted in Mudu Perar.

Methods and subjects of the survey

Before examining the details, let me explain the methods and subjects of the
survey. I surveyed 227 households (total population 1,082) in Mudu Perar
from 18 July to 28 August 2008.7 I visited each household with question-
naires and carried out interviews along with my research assistant, Ms Ak-
shaya Shetty. Sometimes Akshaya’s father, Mr Harish Shetty, accompanied
us as a guide and introduced me to the interviewees. We conducted the sur-
vey during the monsoon season, so we walked to the houses in the village
every day in the pouring rain, passing through fields that had sunk under-
water and had become like ponds, crawling up mountain roads covered by
bushes, occasionally slipping and falling on footpaths between fields. Most
of the villagers were acquaintances of Harish and Akshaya, and were happy
to answer questions when I explained my intentions.
The survey was conducted mainly in Hindu residential areas in Mudu
Perar. Out of the 227 households I surveyed, 219 households were Hindu
and they constituted 31.8% of the Hindu households (total 689 households)
in Mudu Perar. Table 11.4 shows the numbers of households by caste and
group. As we can see in the table, the caste constitution of 227 households is
similar to that in Mudu Perar which I discussed in Chapter 2.

Table 11.4 C
 aste/group of households and population*

Caste/group Number of households Population

Kuḍubi 79 436
Baṇṭa 56 203
Pūjāri 47 224
Ācāri 9 61
Moyli 8 37
Catholic 8 25
SC* 5 25
Belcaḍe 5 25
Brahman 4 15
Puruṣa 3 18
Baṇḍāri 2 9
Mūlya 1 4
Total 227 1,082

* SC in Table 11.4 are Mansạ and those who call themselves harijana, but their
exact caste name is unknown.
188 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Group composition of landlord households
Forty-three households out of the 227 households I surveyed were landlords
before enforcement of the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment) Act in
1974, constituting approximately 18.9% of the total.8 Table 11.5a shows the
numbers of these 43 households by caste and group. As we can see from
the table, 40 households, approximately 93% of the landlord households,
are Baṇṭa. If we look at the details of the families of Baṇṭa households
(Table 11.6), we see that 19 households, constituting 47.5%, belong to the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.

Table 11.5 N
 umber of (a) landlord households, (b) tenant households, (c) domestic
labourer households, and (d) other households by caste/group

Caste/group Number of %
households

(a) Landlord households Baṇṭa 40 93.0

Brahman 2 4.7
Catholic 1 2.3
Total 43 100
(b) Tenant households Kuḍubi 27 39.7
Pūjāri 18 26.5
Baṇṭa 8 11.8
Ācāri 6 8.8
Catholic 4 5.9
Others* 5 7.4
Total 68 100
(c) Domestic labourer Kuḍubi 40 55.6
households Pūjāri 17 23.6
Moyli 7 9.7
Baṇṭa 3 4.2
Puruṣa 2 2.8
Belcaḍe 2 2.8
SC 1 1.4
Total 72 100
(d) Other households Kuḍubi 12 30.0
Pūjāri 12 30.0
Ācāri 3 7.5
Belcaḍe 3 7.5
Baṇṭa 2 5.0
Catholic 2 5.0
SC 2 5.0
Moyli 1 2.5
Mūlya 1 2.5
Baṇḍāri 1 2.5
Brahman 1 2.5
Total 40 100

* Caste of ‘Others’: SC 2, Brahman 1, Puruṣa 1, Baṇḍāri 1.

 Land reforms and deities 189
Table 11.6 F
 amilies of Baṇṭa landlord households

Baṇṭa household affiliation Number of households %

Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 19 47.5

Other Baṇṭa 13 32.5
Alakɛ guttu 4 10.0
Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu 4 10.0
Total 40 100

Group composition of tenant households

Out of the 227 households surveyed, 68 households were tenants (gēṇi okkelụ)
before land reform.9 Table 11.5b shows the numbers of these 68 households
by caste and group. Forty-five households, constituting approximately 66% of
the total, are Kuḍubi and Pūjāri, followed by Baṇṭa and Ācāri, and Catholic.

Group composition of domestic labourer households

Seventy-two households out of 227 were domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ) be-
fore land reform.10 Table 11.5c shows the numbers of 72 households by caste.
Just as in the case of tenant households, Kuḍubi and Pūjāri households are the
most numerous, as 55.6% are Kuḍubi, followed by Pūjāri, Moyli, and Baṇṭa.

Group composition of other households

Of the 227 households, 40 households were not landlords, tenants, or do-
mestic labourers before land reform (Table 11.5d). Among these, 26 house-
holds live on housing sites 5 cents in size developed by the government after
the 1970s. Adult members of these households were daily wage labourers en-
gaged in agriculture or other work before land reform, and were not live-in
domestic labourers.
From the above, we see that the socio-economic structure of Mudu Perar
before land reforms was such that while the Baṇṭa occupied much of the
farmland and forests, Kuḍubi and Pūjāri engaged in the actual farm labour
as tenants and domestic labourers.

Characteristics of land holding and inheritance among the

Baṇṭa landlords

Land holdings and acquisitions by the landlord households

Next, I will analyse the land holdings of landlord households in Mudu Perar.
Table 11.7 shows the area of holdings of 43 households in 2008, who had
been landlords before land reform.
190 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Table 11.7 A rea of land holdings of landlord households (2008)

(Unit: acre) Farmland Forest Total

Total area 129.41 201.05 333.96*

Average area** 3.16 4.9 7.77

* Total calculated by adding 3.5 acres of total holdings of two households,

whose type of land is unknown, to the total of farmland and forest.
** Average area of farmland and forest excludes two households whose
type of holdings is unknown.

As we see in Table 11.7, the total holding of landlord households is approxi-

mately 334 acres. The average holding of each household is approximately 7.8
acres, including farmland and forests. How did these households acquire land?
Table 11.8 illustrates the manner of land acquisition by these 43 households.
As Table 11.8 shows, holdings of many landlord households were a part
of traditional family land of the kuṭuma, or land bought in the past by a
matrilineal family member that later became a part of joint holdings of the
kabarụ to which the buyer belonged (‘grandfather’s land’). With the excep-
tion of five households who acquired land through purchase by the present
head of household before land reform (four Baṇṭas, one Catholic), and two
­Brahman households who only inherited land bought by the father, the rest
of the landlord households (Baṇṭa) have all inherited a part of the t­ raditional
family land or ‘grandfather’s land’.

Table 11.8 C
 lassification of holdings of landlord households according to manner
of acquisition

Manner of land acquisition Number of %

households

Matrilineal inheritance of traditional family land1 16 37.2

Traditional family land + matrilineal inheritance of land 9 20.9
purchased by matrilineal family member2
Purchase before land reform 5 11.6
Traditional family land + inheritance of land purchased by 4 9.3
maternal grandfather or maternal great grandfather
Traditional family land + acquisition due to land reform3 3 7.0
Inheritance of land purchased by father 2 4.7
Traditional family land + purchase before land reform 1 2.3
Traditional family land + purchase before land reform + 1 2.3
acquisition due to land reform
Traditional family land + ‘grandfather’s land’ + 1 2.3
inheritance of land purchased by father
‘Grandfather’s land’ only 1 2.3
Total 43 100

1 Abbreviated as ‘traditional family land’ in this table.

2 Abbreviated as ‘grandfather’s land’ in this table.
3 Landlord households who acquired land due to land reform were tenants of other landlords
before the reform.
 Land reforms and deities 191
In this way, in Mudu Perar, many household heads, who were landlords be-
fore land reform, are either inheritors or managers of a part of the land holding
of the matrilineal family. It should be pointed out that as we saw in the case
of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in Chapter 10, present-day inheritors or managers of
each plot in the kuṭuma are not necessarily officially registered as the holders.
Hence those whom we have referred to until now as ‘landlords’ are not ‘land
owners’ with legal and exclusive rights to a plot of land, but rather the repre-
sentatives of the plot jointly held by the kuṭuma. Below I will examine land
tenure among the Baṇṭa landlord households based on concrete cases.

Inheritance of traditional family land and ‘grandfather’s land’

Case 1 Inheritance and management of family land registered in the name
of a deceased person
Baṇṭa, Alakɛ guttu family. Household composition: Sampavati (77-year-
old, female), her eldest son Vittal, his wife and children. The household owns
3 acres of farmland and 7 acres of forest. These lands are all holdings of the
matrilineal joint family, but are registered in the name of Sampavati’s de-
ceased mother, and have not been divided or registered anew by succeeding
generations. The total of 10 acres of land is presently managed by Vittal and
its income is consumed by only this household.
Case 2 Inheritance and management of family land registered in the name
of a deceased person
Baṇṭa, Alakɛ guttu family. Household composition: Bālākrishna (36-year-old,
male), his wife and children. The household owns 5 acres of land. Bālākrishna’s
mother had matrilineally inherited this land, but it is registered in the name of the
elder sister of Bālākrishna’s maternal great-grandmother (MMMZ). B ­ ālākrishna’s
maternal uncle used to manage the land before Bālākrishna took over.
Cases 1 and 2 show how family land (or a part of it) is registered in the
name of a deceased (female) member of the matrilineal family, inherited by
the eldest woman who represents a kabarụ, and managed by the woman’s
brother or son. As we see in Case 2, the management rights of land usually
pass from the brother of the woman who inherits the land to her son.
Case 3 Various types of matrilineal inheritance by a female landlord
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Devaki (82-year-
old, female) and her daughter. Devaki owns approximately 2 acres of land
inherited matrilineally; 2.5 acres jointly held by the offspring of Devaki’s
mother and the offspring of Devaki’s mother’s sisters; and approximately 3
acres purchased in the past by a matrilineal family member (‘grandfather’s
land’). In addition, she used to own approximately 7 acres located outside
Mudu Perar purchased by the matrilineal family.

i Land inherited matrilineally: this 4-acre land was owned by

Devaki’s mother, Sesamma, and was subsequently divided and
inherited by Devaki and her sisters. At present, the land of all
192 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
three sisters is managed by Devaki’s eldest son, and its income
converted into cash and distributed to the sisters.
ii Land owned by the offspring of Sesamma and the offspring of
Sesamma’s sisters: this land is part of a joint holding of the ka-
barụ headed by the mother of Sesamma and her sisters.
iii and iv ‘Grandfather’s land’: these plots are part of the land purchased by
the maternal uncle of Devaki’s maternal grandmother (MMMB).
Seven acres of land located outside Mudu Perar was transferred
to a Kuḍubi tenant after land reform.

This is a case of the eldest woman of the kuṭuma inheriting and owning
several holdings, including both traditional family land and ‘grandfather’s
land’. There is a tendency among the Baṇṭa for women belonging to the
kuṭuma to inherit a lot of land and accumulate holdings, as land purchased
by a matrilineal family member (male) is passed on to the buyer’s sisters and
their daughters along the matriline.

Inheritance from father to son among the Baṇṭa

Table 11.8 shows that four households (all Baṇṭas) have inherited and own
land purchased by the maternal grandfather (MF) or maternal great grand-
father (MMF) in addition to inheriting the traditional family land. Among
the Baṇṭas, the maternal grandfather and the maternal great grandfather
belong to different kuṭumas from the successor. Hence inheriting land pur-
chased by them is a different mode of inheritance from the usual matrilineal
one. Let us examine this mode of succession below.
Case 4 Inheritance of family land and of land purchased by maternal
grandfather
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Jayashila (67-year-
old, male), his elder sister Rohini, Rohini’s daughter, and Rohini’s daughter’s
­children. They own matrilineally inherited land of 4 acres 86 cents and ­farmland
purchased by the maternal grandfather yielding 21 muḍi.

i Land inherited matrilineally: when Anthakke, the maternal grand-

mother of Jayashila and Rohini, was alive, the kuṭuma elders at the time
promised that Anthakke’s daughter Lamakke (mother of Jayashila and
Rohini) and her sister Manjakke would divide and inherit the land. The
land owned by Jayashila and Rohini at present is part of the land that
their mother Lamakke inherited.
ii Land purchased by the maternal grandfather: this land is part of the
land yielding 100 muḍi (approximately 60 acres) purchased by Appanna
Rai, the husband of Jayashila’s maternal grandmother, Anthakke. This
land was inherited by his children, the sisters Lamakke and Manjakke,
in accordance with Appanna’s will. Out of this 60-acre land, Jayashila
manages the plot yielding 21 muḍi and Manjakke’s son manages the
 Land reforms and deities 193
plot yielding 63 muḍi at present. The remaining land was acquired by a
Catholic tenant at the time of land reform.

The above is a case of a Baṇṭa family where a part of the family land of
the kuṭuma to which the household head belongs is inherited matrilineally,
while land purchased by the maternal grandfather of the household head is
inherited by his own children and their offspring. As we have already seen,
among the matrilineal Baṇṭa, land purchased by a male member of the mat-
rilineal family becomes part of the family land, as it is inherited not by his
own children but by his sisters and their offspring. However, in Case 4, it
was possible for Appanna Rai’s daughters, belonging to a different kuṭuma
from him, to inherit the land he purchased because he left a will. Such mode
of inheritance whereby the children inherit land purchased by their father
diverts from the traditional matrilineal inheritance among the Baṇṭa.11
Case 5 Inheritance of family land and of land purchased by maternal
great grandfather
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Single person
household of Sumati (67-year-old, female). Sumati currently owns approx-
imately 4 acres 60 cents of land she inherited matrilineally. Before land re-
form, she owned 2 acres of matrilineally inherited farmland in Mudu Perar,
and had usufruct of 3 acres out of 25 acres of family land outside the village.
Before land reform, Sumati also owned farmland that yielded 42 muḍi (ap-
proximately 8 acres) in Mudu Perar. This land was purchased by the hus-
band of her maternal great grandmother, Unnyakke, but was transferred to
a Pūjāri tenant at the time of land reform.
In the above case, the eldest woman, the household head, matrilineally in-
herits the holdings of the kuṭuma she belongs to, and at the same time inher-
its land purchased by her maternal great grandfather. The latter was passed
from her great grandfather to her grandmother, and then to her mother be-
fore her. Land purchased by a man of the matrilineal family (‘grandfather’s
land’) can be inherited matrilineally, or it can be directly inherited by the
man’s children and their offspring, as we saw in Cases 4 and 5. Inheritance
from the father to his children can lead to discord between the members of
the buyer’s matrilineal family and his children, since land is inherited by
members of a kuṭuma other than that to which the buyer belongs.
Disputes between the landholder’s children and the matrilineal family
over inheritance occur not only in cases of land purchased by the holder
himself. In the case below, we see how a conflict develops between a de-
ceased landholder’s elder sister and his child over land purchased by a mat-
rilineal family member that later came to be divided and inherited.
Case 6 Conflict between the deceased landholder’s sister and son over land
Household composition: Dinakara (Baṇṭa, 52-year-old, male), his wife and
children. Dinakara’s father, Narayana, owned a part of the ‘grandfather’s
land’, which had been purchased in the past by a member of the matrilin-
eal family to which Narayana belonged. It was divided and inherited by
194 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Narayana and his brothers and sisters according to division by population
(janasaṅkyɛpālụ). After Narayana’s death, his land was inherited by his elder
sister (Dinakara’s paternal aunt). This led to a dispute between Dinakara and
his paternal aunt over the land, and they are currently involved in a lawsuit.
As we have already seen, the landlords, many of whom are Baṇṭa, owned
farmland and forests in Mudu Perar before land reform. Many of them
matrilineally inherited and own parts of traditional family land as well as
‘grandfather’s land’. Land holding and inheritance based on matriliny pri-
oritises inheritance by women and grants authority and benefits to the wom-
en’s brothers or sons as the managers of the land. There are cases where the
child (most often the daughter) inherits land purchased by her father. Such
cases, however, are few compared to those of matrilineal inheritance.
Traditional family land of a kuṭuma often remains registered in the name
of a kinswoman who died several generations ago. As in the case of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu we discussed in Chapter 10, the larger the holding of a
kuṭuma, the less smooth the division, inheritance, and registration of land
among the members, resulting in the continuation of joint holdings by the
kuṭuma to the present day.
In this way, since land is not registered in an individual’s name, or past
registration is not updated, rights of family members to plots that are part of
family land are not fixed, and individuals’ rights are restricted. For instance,
if a person matrilineally inherits a part of family land, he/she will not have
rights to sell the land as real estate or borrow money from a bank by mort-
gaging it, unless the land is registered in his/her name. Due to this problem,
land is often bought and sold within the kuṭuma without changing the name
in the register, as we see below.
Case 7 Land transaction ‘in private’ without changing the name in the
register
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Harish (55-year-
old, male), his wife and child. Harish owns 7 acres 75 cents of land at pres-
ent. He purchased this land from a family member belonging to the same
kuṭuma. The land is registered in the name of Harish’s maternal grand-
mother, Sesamma. Two households, also direct descendants of Sesamma,
had rights as joint managers. Harish purchased the land with permission
from all the adult members of these two households and paid the money,
but the land remains registered in Sesamma’s name. Hence Harish fears the
possibility of losing the land, if the offspring of the households who had
management rights decide to claim their rights in the future.
In this way, land holding and inheritance based on matriliny enables
maintenance and accumulation of land within the kuṭuma. At the same
time, however, it leaves the rights of family members to each plot ambig-
uous. How were the Baṇṭa landlords that practised such methods of land
holding and inheritance affected by land reforms, and how did they deal
with the changes? Let us now turn to the relationship between landlords and
land reform.
 Land reforms and deities 195
Enforcement of the Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment)
Act and the people’s practices

Land reforms and landlords in Perar

In the survey I conducted in Mudu Perar, out of the 43 households who were
landlords before land reform, 15 households, constituting 34.9% of the to-
tal, lost land due to the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act of 1974. Table 11.9
shows the area of land that each household (or kuṭuma to which the head
of household belonged in cases where land was not divided) lost due to land
reform, types of land based on how they were acquired, and their location.12

Table 11.9 Landlord households that lost land due to land reform

House Land area lost Manner of acquisition Location

hold due to land
number * reform (in acre)

38 1.5 Farmland purchased by Mudu Perar

household head
47 0.16 Traditional family Mudu Perar
land** (homestead)
146 2.1 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
147 0.43 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
148 10.38 Traditional family Inside and outside Mudu
land, land purchased Perar (family land),
by maternal great outside Mudu Perar
grandfather (purchased land)
149 1 acre Traditional family land, Mudu Perar
+ land yielding land purchased by
26 muḍi maternal grandfather
152 1 acre Traditional family land Mudu Perar (1 acre),
+ land yielding outside Mudu Perar
200 muḍi (land yielding 200
muḍi)
153 Same as 152 Traditional family land Same as 152
157 11.2 Farmland purchased by Mudu Perar
household head’s father
158 7 ‘Grandfather’s land’ Outside Mudu Perar
162 1.5 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
163 8 Land purchased by Outside Mudu Perar
maternal great
grandfather
196 4 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
197 Same as 196,198 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
198 Same as 196,197 Traditional family land Mudu Perar
Total 48.27 acres +
land yielding
226 muḍi***

* Serial number of each household in the survey.

** Includes joint holdings that are not divided.
*** Approximate average 3.22 acres + land yielding 15.1 muḍi.
196 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
As we can see in the table, the total area of land the 15 landlord h
­ ouseholds
lost due to land reform is 48.27 acres. The average area each household
lost is approximately 3.22 acres.13 If we look at the different kinds of land
­according to the ways they were acquired, 12 households, that is to say, 80%
of the total of 15 households, lost a part of family land (including both tradi-
tional family land and ‘grandfather’s land’). As for the location of the land,
13 households lost their land within Mudu Perar to tenants.
However, 28 households, constituting 65.1% of the total of 43 landlord
households, have not lost land due to land reform. Also, as we saw in ­Table 11.7,
landlord households currently own a total of approximately 334 acres of land,
and each household owns an average of approximately 7.8 acres of farmland
and forest. Thus, among the landlord households surveyed, there were more
households who did not lose land due to land reform than those that did, and
those who were landlords before land reform still maintain vast amounts of
land. So how was it possible for the landlords to keep their land?
Before land reform, out of these 28 households, 4 households had no ten-
ants (gēṇi okkelụ), and only employed domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ). Fif-
teen households used neither tenants nor domestic labourers, and out of
these, the household heads of three households were tenants of other land-
lords. The remaining nine households employed tenants before land reform,
but managed to evade transfer of land to the tenants because for some rea-
son the tenants did not apply for land rights at the time of land reform.14 In
most cases, these households were able to keep land, in spite of the fact that
they had tenants, either because the tenants had left the land of their own
accord before the enforcement of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, or
because they had evicted the tenants just before and after the enforcement
of the Act. Let us examine concrete cases below.
Case 1 Landlords evicting tenants
Household composition: Ishwara (Baṇṭa, 75-year-old, male), his wife and
children, and two grandchildren. This household owns 14 acres of farmland
and forest purchased by Ishwara in 1968. There were tenants on the land
before the purchase, but Ishwara asked them to leave before the enactment
of land reform, and they did so. Hence he lost no land due to land reform.
Case 2 Conflict between landlords and tenants over application for land
rights
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Mahabhara
(85-year-old, male) and his wife Hemabati. They own 3 acres 40 cents of
farmland and forest inherited matrilineally by Hemabati. They used to have
a Catholic tenant and Kuḍubi domestic labourer before land reform. At the
time of land reform, the Catholic tenant tried to apply for land rights, result-
ing in a dispute between the tenant and Mahabhara. Mahabhara paid the
tenant some money and persuaded him to give up the application.
Cases 1 and 2 involve landlords evicting tenants and retaining their land
rights at the time of enforcement of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act of
1974. In both cases, the landlords drove the tenants off the land before the
 Land reforms and deities 197
tenants applied for land rights. Below is a case where the landlords, who lost
a part of land to a tenant due to land reform, evicted a tenant working on
another plot of land in order to preserve their rights there.
Case 3 Landlords holding on to their land
Household composition: Lukumuni (Baṇṭa, 65-year-old, female) and her
daughter. Lukumuni owns 2.5 acres of matrilineally inherited farmland
and forest. Before land reform, Lukumuni’s family lived in Kompadavụ, a
­village adjacent to Mudu Perar, but moved to Kokkar in Mudu Perar in 1976
because they had lost their holdings due to land reform. Lukumuni’s mater-
nal uncle, his wife and children had lived on the land owned by ­Lukumuni’s
matrilineal family in Kokkar, but after the maternal uncle died, Lukumu-
ni’s family paid the uncle’s wife some money and made them leave the land.
Later, a Kuḍubi tenant came to work on this land, but Lukumuni’s family
occupied the land before the tenant could apply for land rights and evicted
the tenant. According to Lukumuni, her family evicted the Kuḍubi ten-
ant because they feared that tenants would take over the land not only in
­Kompadavụ but also in Kokkar.
Case 4 Landlords evicting tenants
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Lalita (60-year-
old, female) and her son. Four acres of land owned by the matrilineal family
of Lakshmi, the mother of Lalita’s deceased husband, was acquired by a
Pūjāri tenant due to land reform. For this reason, Lakshmi’s maternal uncle
evicted the Pūjāri tenant from the land of which he himself was the landlord.
Case 5 Dismissal of tenants and use of short-term tenants
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Ramani (84-year-
old, female), her daughter, son, his wife and children. They own 5 acres of
farmland and forest matrilineally inherited by Ramani, as well as 4 acres
of forest and 3 acres of farmland purchased in 1993. An old-time Baṇṭa ten-
ant worked on the matrilineally inherited land, but when the tenant died in
1968, his wife and child left the land. After that, Ramani’s mother’s siblings
managed the land, and tenants came and went as they were employed on a
short-term basis.
As we see from the above, some landlords fearing that the tenants would
apply for land rights evicted them just before and after 1970, and held on to
their land rights. Also, as we see in Case 5, some landlords took measures
to ensure that particular tenants would not apply for land rights by dismiss-
ing tenants after a short term and continually changing the tenants they
employed.

Application for land rights by village landlords

As I have already discussed, people who managed land and had rights to the
products of that land did not necessarily establish their rights to the land by
registering with the government. Rights of family members to joint holdings
of the kuṭuma were ambiguous. As we will see below, the enforcement of
198 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act provided opportunities for them to fix
their rights to parts of the family land by applying for land rights as landed
farmers.
Case 1 Application for ‘grandfather’s land’
According to Villagewar Resister of Applications Filed under Section 48-A
before the Tribunal (VRA), on 27 August 1974, Gangādara Bandāri’s wife,
Maloti, applied for land rights over 0.7 acre of land owned by Pējāvara
Mutt, and her application was accepted. Harish Shetty, a member of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, explained the context of this application as follows. The
maternal uncle of Ishwara Shetty, the head of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu be-
fore Muttaya Shetty, paid Pējāvara Mutt some money and acquired rights
as a landholder. However, he continued to pay a small amount of rent to
the mutt. Later, the land was divided and inherited by members of the
sub-matrilineal joint family (kabarụ). The 0.7 acres of land that Gangādara
Bandāri’s wife applied for was one of the plots that was divided and in-
herited at that time. This land had been gifted to Gangādara as a part of
dowry by Gangādara’s maternal uncle, who was also Maloti’s father (i.e.
Gangādara and his wife were cross cousins). This land was cultivated by a
Pūjāri tenant, but Gangādara successfully applied to the land tribunal for
rights to this land in his wife’s name. He did so in order to determine his own
rights to the land.
Case 2 Application for ‘grandfather’s land’
According to VRA, on 31 December 1974, Pōvappa Shetty’s wife, Girija,
applied for and was granted land rights of a total of 10.8 acres of land owned
by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu. These plots had been purchased by a member of
the matrilineal family and inherited by Pōvappa Shetty’s mother. Pōvappa
applied for and acquired land rights in his wife’s name in order to determine
his own rights to the plots.
Case 3 Arbitrary application for ‘grandfather’s land’ and conflict among
family members
According to VRA, on 29 June 1976, a man of Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu called
Bōba Shetty applied for and was granted the rights of several plots of land
totalling 39.08 acres. This land was originally owned by a kabarụ belonging
to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, and there was an ongoing conflict among the fam-
ily members about dividing it. Bōba applied for land rights over these plots
in order to determine his rights over them in spite of the fact that he was not
cultivating them. Bōba’s maternal uncle belonging to the same kabarụ filed
a lawsuit against Bōba’s application, and the case is still in dispute in the
high court.
All the above three cases involve a member of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu using
land reform to determine rights over a part of land purchased by a matri-
lineal family member (‘grandfather’s land’). However, in the VRA, we find
no cases of a member of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu applying to the land tribunal
for rights to a part of the traditional family land. Hence we see that it was
extremely difficult for members of a kuṭuma to declare individual rights over
 Land reforms and deities 199
traditional family land, and it was easier to assert rights over ‘grandfather’s
land’ of the kabarụ to which they belonged. This corresponds to what we
discussed in Chapter 10: traditional family land of the whole kuṭuma cannot
be easily divided, and family members’ rights over land remain ambiguous,
whereas division and inheritance of ‘grandfather’s land’ is a comparatively
smooth process because there are fewer family members who have rights to it.
As we saw in Chapter 10, the people of the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu find them-
selves in between customary law (kaṭṭụ) and the modern judiciary system.
They have to contend with the dilemma between duty towards the continu-
ity of the kuṭuma and pursuit of individual rights. Land reforms posed cri-
ses for the encompassing and complex kuṭuma based on large family land,
but they also offered opportunities for individual members of the kuṭuma to
determine their land rights officially by applying to land tribunals. In this
context, it was easier for individuals to assert their ownership rights over
‘grandfather’s land’ since the land was purchased by comparatively recent
ancestors. Such land had weaker links with the deities worshipped by the
kuṭumas, and did not have the historical significance as a collective resource
of the entire kuṭuma. In other words, ‘grandfather’s land’ offered chance of
a compromise between the demand to protect family land of the kuṭuma
and the need to determine individual land rights.
Lastly, let us examine a case where a man of Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu applied for
rights over several plots of land including family land of the kuṭuma.
Case 4 Eviction of tenant by landlord, and application and determination
of land rights
Baṇṭa, Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu family. Household composition: Yashoda
(77-year-old, female), her son, his wife and children. They own 10 acres of
land matrilineally inherited by Yashoda, and total of 16 acres of land, the
rights over which were acquired due to land reform. According to Yashoda,
her deceased husband, Sundar Rai, was a tenant (mūla gēṇi) of Pējāvara
Mutt before land reform. He applied for and was granted land rights over
this tenant land at the time of enactment of land reforms. A Pūjāri tenant
used to work on the land matrilineally inherited by Yashoda, but Sundar
evicted the tenant.
This case shows how a man, who was a landlord and at the same time a
tenant of another landlord, acquired ownership rights over a vast amount of
land by applying for land rights of several plots. The case, however, is related
to problems over land in another household in the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, and
the situation is more complex than the above explanation given by Yashoda
and her son. Devaki, an 82-year-old woman belonging to the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu as Sundar Rai did, points out that Sundar was not the mūla gēṇi of
Pējāvara Mutt. It was Devaki who was the mūla gēṇi of the mutt, and Sundar
was a subtenant (ulamūlagēṇi) whom Devaki had employed to cultivate the
land she had rented from the mutt. In 1966, Devaki registered the family land
that had been divided and she had inherited, including the land of ­Pējāvara
Mutt, but she continued to pay the mutt an annual rent of 38 rupees 88 paise
200 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
and 17 muḍi of rice as the mūla gēṇi. However, at the time of enforcement
of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act in 1974, Sundar applied for rights
over the mutt’s land, three plots of farmland on which he worked as a tenant,
and the holding of the kabarụ to which he belonged. Sundar applied for land
rights to the holding of kabarụ, in spite of the fact that he did not cultivate
that land, because otherwise the land would be matrilineally inherited by
his sisters, and he wanted to establish his own rights to the land. In the case
of the mutt’s land, too, Sundar was not actually the mūla gēṇi but a subten-
ant, so he should not have had the right to apply for land rights. But since
Sundar had the real power over the land, Devaki, the mūla gēṇi, says she did
not apply for land rights because she wanted to avoid trouble. As a result,
Sundar acquired rights over several plots of land.

Tenants and land reforms in Perar

Until now, we have examined the effects of land reform in Perar from the
viewpoint of landlord households. So our next question is, how did tenants
experience land reform at the time of enforcement of the Land Reforms
(Amendment) Act?
Forty households, that is to say 58.8% of the 68 tenant households I sur-
veyed, acquired land due to land reform. The 40 households acquired a total
of 122.83 acres of land, and the average area acquired per household is 3.07
acres. These figures may suggest that many tenants successfully acquired
land due to land reform. However, the processes of their acquisition were
by no means easy. Many tenant households experienced conflict with their
landlords and competition with other tenants. Many acquired land after
prolonged court cases. Moreover, 28 households, approximately 41.2% of
the tenant households surveyed, have not acquired land due to land reform.
Let us examine the experiences of the tenant households below.
Case 1 Conflict with the landlord over application of land rights
Household composition: Kunnyanna (Baṇṭa, 78-year-old, male), his wife,
daughter and her children. Kunnyanna’s family was a tenant of 3 acres of
land from his maternal grandmother’s generation. There was a dispute with
the landlord over application of land rights around 1974. Kunnyanna de-
manded that the landlord submit the contract between the landlord and the
tenant called ‘gēṇi sheet’, but the landlord refused. Since Kunnyanna had
not paid any land tax, he did not have any other documents to certify his
case, but his application was approved by the land tribunal and he was able
to acquire the land.
Case 2 False declaration by the landlord
Household composition: Lila (Baṇṭa, 70-year-old, female), her son and his
wife. Lila’s deceased husband and his father were tenants of land (3.75 acres)
of a landlord. When the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act was enforced in
1974, the landlord made a false declaration to the land tribunal, stating,
‘All my land is forest so I have no tenants. I only employ day labourers’.
 Land reforms and deities 201
Since Lila’s husband and his father were uneducated, they did not know that
they were deceived by the landlord. But, later they received help from their
brothers to apply for land rights with success.
Case 3 Court cases with the landlord over land rights
Household composition: Lakshmi (Pūjāri, 55-year-old, female) and her
children. Lakshmi’s late husband and his father were tenants of an absentee
landlord residing in Mangaluru city after 1964. They applied for land rights
in 1974, and acquired rights in 1975. However, the landlord objected to this
and asserted his own rights, leading to a court case. But Lakshmi’s husband
won the case in 1998.
Case 4 Competition with other tenants
Household composition: Muthu (Pūjāri, 70-year-old, female), her son, his
wife and children. Muthu and her husband were tenants of a Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu landlord before 1974. But in 1974, their Pūjāri neighbour suddenly be-
came the tenant, and Muthu and her husband were evicted. The Pūjāri man,
who became the new tenant, acquired rights to the land due to land reform.
Case 5 Landlord’s plotting
Household composition: Shina (Pūjāri, 50-year-old, male), his elder sister,
his wife and sons. Shina’s father was a tenant of a Muslim landlord. Shina’s
family lived on the landlord’s holding, but in 1972 just before the enforce-
ment of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, a Baṇṭa man, who was also a
tenant, bought the land from the landlord. The landlord gave Shina’s family
a mere 12 cents of land and evicted them. According to Shina, the landlord
had predicted the enforcement of the Act, and sold the land before Shina’s
family applied for land rights.
Case 6 Court cases with other tenants
Household composition: Amma (Kuḍubi, 80-year-old, female), Amma’s
son, his wife and children. Amma’s family was a tenant of a Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu landlord from her paternal great grandfather’s generation. At the time
of enforcement of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act, there was a dispute
over land rights between Amma’s father and a Baṇṭa man, who was also a
tenant. They fought for land rights in court for five years having applied for
the rights in 1974. Amma’s father won the case, and paid 7,500 rupees, the
assessed cost of land, through a government bank.
Case 7 Landlord’s plotting and selling of land
Household composition: Koragu (Pūjāri, 66-year-old, male), his wife,
daughter, her husband and children. Before land reform, Koragu and his
wife were tenants of land yielding 2 muḍi. At the time of enforcement of
land reform, the landlord drew up a certificate saying, ‘This land belongs to
the landlord’ and made Koragu put his thumbprint on the document. Since
Koragu was uneducated, he put his thumbprint on the document without
knowing what it was, and as a result could not apply for land rights. The
landlord later sold the land, and Koragu’s family acquired only 10 cents of
land from the Pūjāri man who had bought the land. When I asked, ‘Why were
you unable to acquire land during land reform?’ Koragu seemed unwilling
202 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
to tell me the reasons at first. His wife and daughters each began to tell me,
‘Father was uneducated, so he was deceived by the landlord’. The angry and
resentful tone of the wife and daughters, and Koragu’s regretful demeanour
left lasting impressions on me.
As we have seen so far, disputes over land rights between landlords and ten-
ants, or between tenants who cultivated the land of the same landlord, were
not uncommon at the time of implementation of the Land Reforms (Amend-
ment) Act. From the viewpoint of landlords, protecting the land under their
control meant not only preserving their own rights but also safeguarding the
rights of the entire kuṭuma to that particular land. At the same time, land
reform provided an opportunity for them to determine land rights, which
had been hitherto ambiguous, by officially applying for their own rights over
parts of the family land. For the tenants, however, applying for land rights
over tenant land was not easy since it involved a variety of risks, such as dis-
putes with landlords, competition with other tenants, and even eviction.

Fear of the būtas’ curse over transfer of land rights

How were the būtas as ‘owners of land’ involved in the negotiations over
land rights between landlords and tenants, and transfer of land rights due to
land reform? Let us examine this in the cases below.
Case 1 ‘Būta’s curse’ in a conflict between the landlord and the tenant
Baṇṭa, Alakɛ guttu family. Household composition: Bālākrishna (36-year-
old, male), his wife and children. Bālākrishna is currently the priest (muk-
kāldi) of one of the main deities in Perar, Balavāṇḍi. This household owns
5 acres of matrilineally inherited farmland and forest. Before land reform,
Bālākrishna’s maternal uncle employed a Pūjāri family as tenants to cultivate
3 acres of farmland. At the time of land reform, the maternal uncle and the
tenant family fought over land rights of the tenant farmland. During this
conflict, the Pūjāri family members became mentally ill one after another.
This was interpreted as a curse of the būta worshipped by Alakɛ guttu not
only by Bālākrishna’s maternal uncle but also by the Pūjāri family. As a re-
sult, the Pūjāri family gave up the application for land rights fearing the būta’s
curse. They acquired only 16 cents of homestead land. In 2006, Bālākrishna
paid them some money and evicted them, regaining the 16 cents of land.
Case 2 Conflict within the family over land acquired due to land reform
and būta ritual
Household composition: Kōsa (Pūjāri, 47-year-old, male), his wife and
children. Kōsa’s maternal grandfather was a tenant of a Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu
landlord before land reform. The land acquired by the grandfather due to
the land reform of 1974 was later passed on to Kōsa’s mother’s elder brother
(MB) and then to his son (MBS). The land was not distributed to Kōsa’s
mother and her sisters, who only received homestead land of 11 cents each
in its place. Kōsa is critical of the fact that the land was passed on from his
maternal uncle to his son, leaving out his mother, who was supposed to be
 Land reforms and deities 203
given the land according to the tradition of matrilineal inheritance among
the Pūjāri. Kōsa, however, has given up taking the case to court because if
he were to fight in court with his maternal uncle over land rights, the ritual
of ‘land būta (jāgeda daiva)’ worshipped on the land would have to be inter-
rupted, which could lead to the būta’s curse.
Case 3 Transfer of land rights and rituals due to land reform
Household composition: Mōnappa (Pūjāri, 60-year-old, male), his mother,
and his wife. Mōnappa’s family has the role of decorating the wooden horse
of Balavāṇḍi with flowers and pulling the reins in the yearly ritual of the vil-
lage būta shrine. The family is also the 15th guttu in Perar, and worships the
būta, Kaḍalụta Paṅjūrli, who is said to be a vassal of Balavāṇḍi. Mōnappa’s
father and grandfather were tenants of a Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu landlord from
around 1948. When his father and grandfather were tenants, the Muṅḍabeṭṭu
guttu organised a ritual for Kaḍalụta Paṅjūrli once in every four years, and
other daily rituals were performed by Mōnappa’s family. Mōnappa’s father
applied for land rights in 1974, and acquired the land in 1979. Since then,
Mōnappa’s family performs rituals every year for the būta after obtaining
the būta’s permission through oracles.
Case 4 Tenants of land in the shrine’s name
Household composition: Harish (Moyli, 38-year-old, male), his wife and
children. Harish’s family performs the role of carrying Pilicāmuṇḍi’s mask in
the yearly ritual of the village būta shrine and watching over the ritual items
worshipped on the altar of the shrine during the festival. Harish’s father was
originally a domestic labourer in a Kuḍubi landlord’s house, but was lent 1
muḍi of land in 1958 for performing ritual duties at the shrine from Pōvappa
Chowta, who was the gaḍipatinārụ at the time. When land reform was en-
acted in 1974, Harish’s father applied for land rights of farmland on which
he worked as a tenant, but did not apply for land rights over land on loan
from the gaḍipatinārụ because it was ‘daiva’s land (daivada jāgụ)’. Hence this
land is still registered in the name of the shrine.
In Cases 1 and 2 above, we see how fear of the curse of the būta wor-
shipped on the land prevents escalation of conflict when disputes and ten-
sions arise between landlords and tenants, or between relatives. In Case 1,
the būta’s curse leads to continuance of landlord’s rights and interests by
making the tenant family give up applying for land rights. In Case 2, the
fear of būta’s curse prevents the surfacing of conflict of interests among rel-
atives over inheritance of land acquired through land reform. In this way, it
seems that the presence of deities worshipped on particular land suppresses
conflict over the land to a certain extent, and contributes in preserving the
existing land rights as a result.
In actual fact, however, the landlords also fear the deities’ curse because if
būta rituals are discontinued due to an inappropriate land transfer, the deitie’s
curse will fall not only upon the person who receive the land but also upon
the family of the original landholder. Hence, we should not overlook the fact
that landlords hold on to land linked with būtas not only because they want to
204 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
protect their interests but also because they are obeying the orders of the dei-
ties who demand the maintenance of ties between families, land, and deities.
This can be seen in the resistance movements of landlords against pressures of
land acquisition by large-scale developers in the following chapter.
In Case 3, we see how the rights for worshipping the land būta were
handed over from the landlord family to the tenant family when land rights
were transferred from the landlord to tenant. Case 4 shows how the tenant
of the land belonging to the village būta shrine did not apply for land rights
because it was considered to be ‘daiva’s land’. The Moyli tenant gave up ap-
plying for rights because he perceived that only the trustee of the shrine, the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, could have rights to ‘daiva’s land’.15
These cases illustrate the villagers’ notion that even though the registered
name of the land may have changed outwardly due to land reform, the ulti-
mate ‘owner’ of the land is the deity worshipped on that land and thus the
holder/manager of the land is responsible for the būta rituals. Equally, it is
thought that even though a person may be recognised as the ‘land owner’
in administrative terms, it would be difficult for him/her to have a good
long-term relationship with the land and its deity without carrying out the
rituals properly. For a person to make use of a particular plot of land means
creating an intimate relationship with the deity linked to the land and with
the realm of the wild. Hence, a person must accept the rights and responsi-
bilities (adikāra) towards the deity before exercising rights over land. As we
will see below, this logic applies not only to būtas linked to particular plots
of land, but also to Nāga who is said to be the earth goddess.
As I have already mentioned, when the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act
was enforced in 1974, people who lived on landlords’ land as domestic labour-
ers lost their homes and moved to small plots provided by the government.
These plots were generally referred to as ‘five cents’ according to the area of
each plot of land per house. Most of these plots were located in the dry hilly
areas that were left unused. Such deserted dry areas were called kumki and the
landlords’ houses nearby had customary usufruct over them.16 After the late
1970s, people who had moved to the plots of 5 cents began to participate in
the rituals of the Nāga shrine worshipped by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu who lived
nearby. This was because although the people had purchased the plots from
the government, the true owner of the land was considered to be the neigh-
bouring guttu and not the government. Moreover, the ultimate ‘owner’ of the
land was thought to be the deity whose shrine was located there. The people
came to worship the Nāga shrine so that they could form and maintain an ap-
propriate relationship with the ‘owner’ of the land where they had come to live.

Duties to the kuṭuma and pursuit of individual rights

By focusing on the period just before and after the Land Reforms (Amend-
ment) Act of 1974, I have discussed concrete examples of the ways in people
negotiated over land rights. From observations in this chapter, we see that
 Land reforms and deities 205
land transfers from landlords to tenants were not extensive in Perar, and as a
result the existing system of land tenure was maintained on the whole, just as
we saw in Chapter 9 when we examined the analyses of politico-economists
on land reform in Karnataka (e.g. Thimmaiah & Aziz 1983; Pani 1984).
As we have seen in this chapter, administrative land reform not only inter-
fered in the traditional land system in village society but also intervened and
enforced changes in people’s relationships with their families, neighbours,
farmland, and deities. The people reassembled various social relationships,
including those within the kuṭuma, and those between landlords and ten-
ants, to deal with the demands of the modern law and institutional changes.
Higher-ranked guttus, such as the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu, were faced with
conflict between the demands of maintaining family land and establishing
individual rights, which were not easily compatible. Land reform brought
about a crisis for the inclusive and complex nature of the kuṭuma based on
large joint land holdings, and at the same time, presented opportunities for
individuals belonging to the kuṭuma to officially determine their own land
rights. They protected the rights of the kuṭuma as a whole by preventing
parts of the family land they managed from falling into the hands of tenants.
At the same time, they tried to acquire land rights as individuals by applying
for rights over ‘grandfather’s land’ of the kabarụ to which they belonged.
The guttu people thus viewed land reform that encouraged large-scale
reorganisation of relationship between farmers and land in terms of crisis,
and took pains to preserve the traditional land tenure system that was in-
timately connected to kuṭuma and deities. At the same time, however, they
also saw land reform as a chance, and contrived to establish their individual
rights without disturbing the welfare of the kuṭuma as a whole. This was by
no means an easy task, since it required negotiations and compromises with
various others, such as family members, tenants, and officials in the land
tribunals, as well as the deities that exercised agency through curses and
oracles. It was a process in which people, who were linked to the realm of
the wild and had adikāra to the deities, reassembled new relationships with
land and nature. This process involved a reimagining of their relationships
under conditions where the meaning of ‘land’ was transformed under the
governance and control of the modern judiciary system.
In the meanwhile, land reform gave tenants the opportunity to gain rights
over land to which they were closely connected through their daily farm
labour. However, for them, applying for land rights was a difficult task with
multiple risks, including harassment from landlords, competition with other
tenants, and eviction. What the tenants feared most was incurring the curse
of the deities, the ‘owners of land’, by obstructing the relationship between
the landlords’ families, land, and the būtas.
What was seemed to be a straightforward transfer of rights of land owner-
ship from landlords to tenants under the modern judiciary system was in fact
a matter of much greater significance for the people, whose lives were based
on concrete relationships with land and nature. From their point of view, it
206 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
was a matter of wagering the chances of maintaining the life-sustaining rela-
tionship between humans and the realm of the wild mediated by būta rituals.
Hence, tenants relinquished the opportunity of applying for land rights at
times in fear of the deities’ curse, or entrusted the deities with the decision
of whether or not they were fit to be granted adikāra to the land and deities.
The people of Perar tried to deal with the modern judicial system, which
defined and demanded appropriate legal relationship between persons and
land, by registering the names of land owners, dividing the inheritance of
parts of family land, and applying for registration at land tribunals. At the
same time, they sought for various ways to preserve the fundamental con-
nection with fields, forests, hills, and deities, maintained and inherited by
kuṭumas and brought about through ritual practices. The people attempted
to reassemble relationships between others in accordance with the demands
of modern law, as well as continue to fulfil their rights and responsibilities
towards the deities. Such endeavours and practices fraught with conflict en-
abled them to sustain the circulation of wild śakti and continue to form
transactional networks between humans, deities, and the realm of the wild,
in spite of being governed and controlled by the modern legal system.
The modern judiciary system brought about crises for traditional matri-
liny and land tenure system by interfering with them and demanding reform
in accordance with the law. At the same time, however, through dealing with
such crises, the people came to reflect upon and clearly envisage what as-
pects of the kuṭuma and their relationship to land should be preserved, and
reassembled these aspects in relation to the modern legal system. We should
note, however, that the people were able to maintain and renew their fun-
damental connection to the deities and the realm of the wild even after land
reform. This suggests that though the reforms promoted, to some extent, the
fragmentation of kuṭuma and redistribution of land, they did not overturn
the commonly held belief of land being the basis of farmers’ lives. As we will
see in the next chapter, however, the people living in this region confronted
a new crisis after the 2000s which was to fundamentally overturn such a
supposition. I refer to the large-scale development project of the Mangaluru
Special Economic Zone.

Notes
1 The two kinds of gēṇi okkelụ, mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi, are generally referred to
as gēṇi. Kāli okkelụ, who live and work on the landlords’ land, are commonly
called okkelụ. I refer to mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi as ‘tenant’, and kāli okkelụ as
‘domestic labourer’. For accounts on mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi, see Sturrock (1894,
pp. 130–131), Abhishankar (1973, p. 432), Maclean (1989[1885], p. 64), and Bhat
(1998, pp. 86–89).
2 Mūla gēṇi who have secure land rights can be seen as a ‘minor landholder’ rather
than a ‘tenant’. In colonial South Kanara, tax levied on mūla gēṇi’s farmland
was paid either by the mūla gēṇi or the landlord (Abhishankar 1973, p. 434; Ma-
clean 1989 [1885], p. 64). According to the interviews I conducted in Perar, the
landlord paid tax through the patterụ for both mūla gēṇi and cāla gēṇi.
 Land reforms and deities 207
3 Cāla gēṇi were sometimes subtenants of mūla gēṇi. In Mudu Perar, there are
cases of Baṇṭa landlord households being the mūla gēṇi of other more powerful
Baṇṭas and mutts outside the village. In the household survey conducted among
227 households in Mudu Perar, out of the 111 households who used to be land-
lords or tenants, only three households replied that they were mūla gēṇi before
enforcement of the Land Reforms (Amendment) Act of 1974. Out of these three
households, two households were Baṇṭas (out of which one was a landlord house-
hold) and the other one was Kuḍubi.
4 Apart from rice rations, they said they received no aid from landlords even for
family funerals and weddings of domestic labourers.
5 I have equated the number of plots with the number of applicants. For instance,
if one person has applied for two plots, the number of applicants would be two.
Where I have written ‘unknown’ in Table 11.1 are cases where I could not read
the handwritten information on the VRA.
6 Many of the tenants who applied for land belonging to the Catholic Church were
Christians, and many of those who applied for land belonging to Hindu temples
and mutts were Hindus.
7 All the ages of family members in the cases mentioned in this chapter are those
of 2008.
8 Includes households in which the household head was the landlord of one of the
following before land reform: family land of kuṭuma; land purchased by a mem-
ber of matrilineal family; and other purchased land, as well as households in
which the household head managed a part of the family land before and after
land reform. I exclude one Baṇṭa household who is currently a landlord but the
information about them is unclear, and three households (two Baṇṭa households,
one Catholic household) who became landlords by purchasing land after land re-
form. I have indicated those households which were landlords before land reform
and were also tenants of other landlords at the same time as ‘landlord’. Out of the
landlord households, six households were tenants of other landlords before land
reform, and out of these, one household was the mūla gēṇi of Pējāvara Mutt.
9 Include households in which the household head, or his/her parent’s and grand-
parent’s generation were tenants, and households in which the deceased hus-
band of the female household head was a tenant.
10 Include households in which the household head, or his/her parent’s and grand-
parent’s generation were domestic labourers, and households in which the de-
ceased husband of the female household head was a domestic labourer.
11 Land inheritance from father to child seems to correspond to the extension of
the rights of the natural child due to enforcement of the Hindu Succession Act,
1956 and the Madras Aliyasantana (Mysore Amendment) Act, 1961. However,
we should note that in the survey I conducted in Mudu Perar, all four households
who owned land directly inherited from the father to the child involved inher-
itance from father to daughter. As we see in Case 5, land inherited directly from
the father to the child is inherited matrilineally from the grandmother to the
mother and to the daughter. From this, it is possible that women, and not men,
were prioritised in cases of land inherited directly from the father to the child.
That is to say, once land was inherited by a matrilineal family, it would be main-
tained within the same kuṭuma, and males would be excluded from inheritance.
12 ‘Household number’ in Table 11.9 refers to the serial number I gave to each
household at the time of the survey. As we see in the table, Households 152 and
153 belong to the same matrilineal family, as do Households 196, 197, and 198.
Hence answers about holdings of Households 152 and 153 apply to one matri-
lineal family land, as do those of Households 196, 197, and 198. I have excluded
areas that overlap in the total land area. I have calculated the average by divid-
ing the total land area by 15 households. Households 152 and 153 were landlords
208 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
living in Kompadavụ, a village adjacent to Mudu Perar before land reform, but
since they moved to Mudu Perar after losing land due to land reform, they differ
from other households in Mudu Perar.
13 Excludes land yielding 226 muḍi, the area of which is unknown.
14 Out of these, one household employed tenants while the household head was a
tenant of another landlord.
15 Even in cases other than those involving land reform, land belonging to būta
shrines is generally supposed to be transferred only in the form of gifts and not
sold.
16 Kumki usually refers to wasteland without permanent settlers or users. Neigh-
bouring landlord has latent holding rights, but the government can expropriate
it when need arises. In Perar, development of housing plots 5 cents in size began
in the hilly regions around 1977, and migration of landless classes continues till
today.
12 Būtas in the midst of the
development project

As seen in previous chapters, modern laws such as the Madras Aliya S ­ antana
Act in 1949 and Land Reform (Amendment) Act in 1974 have prompted peo-
ple in South Kanara to transform customary systems of kinship and land
tenure by partially rearranging or replacing them with those defined by mod-
ern law. However, these customary systems, which are deeply rooted in land
and nature and are based on transactions with deities, have not been totally
destroyed by the new laws and policies. For instance, even though the transfer
of land from landlords to tenants was accomplished to some extent through
land reforms, most of the plots of land previously owned by the Baṇṭa land-
lords have been maintained under the co-ownership vested in the members of
kuṭumas. In most cases, the worship of būta and Nāga related to particular
land has also been maintained even after the landowners have changed.
Recently, however, the relations among people, land, and nature based on
būta worship have been thrown into crisis by a massive development project
in the area. Executing modern law and policy has accomplished the par-
tial transformation, or the legal substantialisation, of customary laws and
systems by interfering in people’s daily practices, and by urging them to re-
spond reflexively to the new laws and systems. In contrast, the project exam-
ined in this chapter is one which neither requires a response from the local
people nor aspires to involve itself in the villagers’ daily lives, but instead
aims to achieve the physical erasure of village communities. The goal of this
project is to undercut the basic premise that farmers are inseparable from
their land—a premise that had been guaranteed in preceding reforms—and
to use the vast acquired land in an entirely new manner.
In this chapter, I will investigate this development project’s effects on lo-
cal communities and examine the movements that emerged in response to
it, focusing on būta worship. Būta worship has evolved as people have dealt
with various critical situations, such as the encroachment of the develop-
ment project, their eviction from their land, and the demolishment of village
communities. Indeed, continuities can be observed between the people’s
conflict or collaboration with the development project and those regarding
būta worship; moreover, the intimate relationship between people and dei-
ties still forms the basis of their actions.
210 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Below, I will first provide an overview of the features of the development
project and its general effects on local communities. I will then examine the
antidevelopment movement which achieved the partial withdrawal of the
development project, focusing especially on the relationships between land-
lords and former tenants. Lastly, I will examine the complicated relations
among the people, deities, and land and nature that have emerged through
the encroachment of the development project. In so doing, I will also look
into the transformation of power relations in the local community with an
emphasis on the ongoing disputes over land acquisition.

The Mangalore special economic zone

and the new role of būta worship
From the winding path through the densely forested hills connecting the inte-
rior villages to the coastal towns, there suddenly appear massive steel-frame
buildings. Security guards flank the gates, while high walls and barbed-wire
entanglements surround the entire complex of industrial plants. Driving
along the industrial area, one can observe the red exposed soil of slashed
hills and forests transformed into construction sites. Trucks piled high with
earth and sand come and go, while all that remains on the roadside are a few
coconut trees and some deserted houses covered with dust. Where industrial
plants are already in operation, massive pipelines cut across the sky, and an
extended succession of cylindrical tanks, smokestacks, and metallic plants
range across the vast land. Even from afar, one can see buildings rising to
the sky on the hilltops and fires burning on the highest smokestacks. At
night, the lights glare from the centre of the industrial area. It is difficult,
however, to grasp the entire picture of the industrial area, since it extends
across thousands of acres. It is like a strange megalopolis transplanted from
a different world—this was my first impression of the huge industrial plants.
These industrial plants are a part of the development area called the
­Mangalore Special Economic Zone (MSEZ). The MSEZ has been promoted
by the central and state governments, and by several multinational corpo-
rations, mostly related to the petroleum and petrochemical sectors.1 The
organisation that governs the development project is called Mangalore Spe-
cial Economic Zone Limited (MSEZL, hereafter also called the ‘company’),
founded in 2006. In general, SEZs are primarily established with the aim of
attracting foreign direct investment, especially from multinational corpora-
tions (Farole 2011). As Bedi (2013, p. 38) describes, SEZs are unique enclaves
with a free-market orientation, governed by legal and tax environments that
transcend regular national laws. SEZs that create economic incentives dif-
ferent from those in the nation as a whole are touted as enabling countries to
create an advanced infrastructure. In the case of SEZs in India, the private
sector is enticed with offers of cheap land to develop these zones and create
world-class industrial and commercial infrastructures (Levien 2011; see also
Sharma 2009 and Vijayabaskar 2010).
 Būtas in the development project 211
Similarly, by employing one person per displaced household and paying
compensation, the MSEZ has created both advanced infrastructures and
new economic opportunities for some of the local people. Some have moved
to rehabilitation areas offered by the company and have begun to enjoy their
modern facilities. Nevertheless, as we will see below, most villagers from the
requisitioned areas became destitute after being expelled from their agricul-
tural fields.
In the course of this project, several villages and numerous religious
structures, including būta shrines, were destroyed, and land acquisition by
MSEZL displaced numerous people. Prior to the foundation of MSEZL, in
the mid-1990s, Mangalore Refinery and Petrochemicals Limited (MRPL),
the industry adjoined to and closely interrelated with the MSEZ, had already
acquired 1,850 acres of land and had displaced about 930 families. In the first
phase of the project, MSEZL acquired another 1,800 acres in Bajpe, the vil-
lage adjacent to Padu Perar, and several neighbouring villages, and displaced
1,518 families (Cook, Bhatta, & Dinker 2013, p. 41; see also Dhakal 2009).
How have the people living in this area responded to this land acquisition?
How has būta worship been transformed in the course of the development
project? I will next examine the antidevelopment movements that emerged
and the new role of būta worship.

Būta worship as the stronghold of resistance?

Since the 2000s, various antidevelopment movements have arisen in
­Mangalore against MSEZL’s land acquisition, destruction of villages, and
environmental contamination. At the outset, most movements warned of
environmental pollution and protested the forceful land acquisition. For
example, the members of a fishermen’s association organised a sit-in to de-
nounce marine pollution, and environmental nongovernmental organisa-
tions reported on the destructive impact of the MSEZ (e.g. Hosbet & Bhatta
2003). Similarly, displaced farmers, social activists, religious leaders, and
college students have organised antidevelopment rallies and demonstrations.
In addition to concerns about the environment and land acquisition, no-
tions of ‘local culture’ and ‘tradition’ have recently become an essential part
of antidevelopment discourse. As mentioned, in the course of the MSEZ pro-
ject, several villages and numerous religious structures have been destroyed,
and it has become impossible to continue rituals in those villages. The būtas,
closely related to the local landscape and worshipped by the villagers, have
been taken as a symbol of local culture as well as the basis of people’s iden-
tity. In various media such as local newspapers, broadcasts, and websites,
the oracles of būtas in villages acquisitioned by the company have been re-
ported as voicing the deities’ objections to the development project.
This growing public attention to būtas is mainly due to social activists,
who have focused on the ‘cultural issue’ and its appeal to the media, for
example, U. Uday, a photographer and social activist, held an exhibition of
212 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
photographs of village life at risk of destruction. This exhibition was cov-
ered by several local newspapers and became rather high profile. Likewise,
Vidya Dinker, an activist involved in leading several social movements in
Mangaluru, made a documentary of the būta ritual held in a village manor
house, whose members had been protesting against land acquisition. Re-
garding būta worship and the antidevelopment movement, Vidya said,

I think environmental pollution is a universal problem. Meanwhile, your

research [on būta worship] is important because it can help us grasp the
issues which often relate more deeply with local communities, and also
are never recorded or discussed by NGOs. The traditional belief system
can help the local people build resistance [against the exploitation of the
company], and if it is taken away from them, their inner strength will
be totally lost.
(Vidya Dinker, personal contact, 15 March 2012)

As reflected in this comment, most social activists advocate the ‘local

culture’ and ‘traditional belief system’ of villagers and regard these as
the core of the people’s identity and worldview. Through this interpre-
tation and representation by the activists and mass media, the people’s
everyday practice of būta worship has been transformed into an ‘alter-
native epistemology’ (Stoffle & Arnold 2003) as well as a stronghold of
resistance against the development project. At the same time, such dis-
course represents these villagers as the subjects of the antidevelopment
movements, protesting against exploitation based on their identity as būta
worshippers. Here būta worship, taken as a symbol of cultural protest,
seems transformed from people’s embodied practice into an icon of the
antidevelopment movements.
When one examines closely people’s various responses and practices re-
garding the development project, however, it is clear that the significance of
būta worship in relation to the development project cannot be reduced to a
mere icon of antidevelopment movements. As we will see, the deities who
order the villagers to protect the land and shrine become a driving force for
them to protest against land acquisition. The deities’ oracles also have the
compelling power to prohibit villagers from leaving their land. Moreover,
new frictions among people regarding land acquisition and migration cause
further disputes concerning the question of which deity should be wor-
shipped by whom on the land in question. Thus, due to the deities, the situ-
ation of the people facing the development project becomes more and more
complex. Below, I will investigate the emergence of antidevelopment move-
ments in the villages adjacent to Bajpe (hereafter called ‘the Bajpe area’), fo-
cusing first on a movement based in a village called Tenka Yekkar involving
various actors, including high-caste landlords, former tenants, Dalit activ-
ists, and local deities, who consequently achieved the partial withdrawal of
the MSEZ’s second phase.
 Būtas in the development project 213
Local movements against the MSEZ

The antidevelopment movement led by a local magnate

and a village deity
Tenka Yekkar is a village adjoining the MSEZ. In 2007, the government
chose the village for acquisition as part of the development project. How-
ever, after many twists and turns, the village was notified in 2010 that the
land acquisition plan had been cancelled. Let us consider this very rare suc-
cessful case of an antidevelopment movement, first from the viewpoint of
a member of a powerful guttu family, and second from the viewpoint of a
Dalit activist.2
Kavaramane guttu, the top guttu of Tenka Yekkar, is responsible for the
worship of a powerful village būta called Kodamanittāya. The family owns
150 acres of land. Before land reforms, many villagers worked on their land
as tenants and agricultural labourers. Their manor house is situated amid
beautiful paddy fields, and at the site, there is a magnificent treasure house
for Kodamanittāya.
Nitin Hegde, the young head of Kavaramane guttu, stated that the
­Karnataka Industrial Areas Development Board notified him in 2007 that
the government would acquire a total of 2,035 acres of land in Tenka Yekkar
and three adjoining villages. Since 2005, MSEZL had started land acquisi-
tion for the first phase of the development project, and already in 2007, it
began more land acquisition for the second phase. The Board initiated a
survey of the village land soon afterwards.
In response to an urgent call by Nitin Hegde, more than 200 villagers in
opposition to the land acquisition, including former tenants and workers
of the guttu’s land, gathered at the Kavaramane guttu house. Due to their
protests, the survey by the Board stopped temporarily. During this time,
the guttu family held an annual ritual for Kodamanittāya. In the ritual, the
deity, speaking through a medium, stated its opposition to the land acquisi-
tion, saying, ‘You should not undertake any more troubles. Go ahead, I will
protect your land’.
Receiving this oracle, Hegde and the villagers held a meeting at a v­ illage
public hall and decided to organise a committee called Krishi Bhumi
­Sanrakshan Samiti, or the ‘Save the Cultivated Land Committee’, as the
foundation for protests against land acquisition. Through this committee,
the guttu family, former tenants, and agricultural workers together developed
a movement under the slogan of ‘Protect farmland!’
This story illustrates a dimension of the antidevelopment movement from
the perspective of a powerful local guttu family. From this viewpoint, the
movement was successful thanks to several main factors: first, the strong
leadership of the local guttu family; second, the solidarity of the villagers/
former tenants and workers, who were united under the guttu; and third, the
supreme agency of the village deity which symbolised the land and nature
214 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
to be protected and was the driving force of people’s protests against land
acquisition.
In this view, the movement is conceived of as organised around tradi-
tional authority, which united the villagers and ensured that the movement
was effective. Solidarity among the people was only made possible by the
social prestige and power of the top guttu, following traditional notions of
hierarchy and religious authority in the village. As we will see, however, a
different aspect of the same movement may be revealed by taking the per-
spective of Ragu, a Dalit activist.

Protest against the company and landlords by small farmers

Ragu was born in Tenka Yekkar in 1975. When the village was targeted by
the development project, he was a member of Dalit Sangharsh Samiti, the
Dalit movement in the state of Karnataka. His family had been agricultural
workers for the Kavaramane guttu family before the Land Reform (Amend-
ment) Act was legislated in 1974 and had made a living by farming a small
plot of land.
According to Ragu, after being notified of the government’s acquisition
plans, one of the influential landlords in the village sought to facilitate land
transfers and the evacuation of the villagers. Among the 447 acres of land
targeted for acquisition, 130 acres was owned by a family called the Āgalu
guttu. Though the Āgalu and Kavaramane guttus had originally composed
a matrilineal joint family, the family split into two groups four generations
ago. As already seen, according to the deity’s oracle which was closely re-
lated to their land, the Kavaramane guttu decided not to hand over their
land to the company. Contrary to this, the Āgalu guttu not only transferred
their land to the company and received compensation, but urged other vil-
lagers to hand over their land to the company also.
Deeply concerned that the transfer of land in the village would advance
quickly with the assistance of some of the guttus and villagers, Ragu and
other activists began going door to door to inform villagers of the negative
outcomes that would result from giving up their land. After this steady cam-
paign, Ragu and other core members held a meeting in a public hall in Tenka
Yekkar to organise a united protest movement with three other villages.
More than 2,000 people, most of them poor landholders and former ten-
ants, attended the meeting and decided to protest against the MSEZ. Next,
they organised the Krishi Bhumi Sanrakshan Samiti, and Ragu became its
president. Upon establishing this committee, they held a press conference
and released a statement that they would firmly oppose the second phase of
the MSEZ and refuse to transfer their land. They soon started to cooperate
with various groups such as environmental activists, religious communities,
and student associations.
As the movement became more influential, more conflicts occurred be-
tween the Samiti and the MSEZ, including both physical fights and lawsuits.
 Būtas in the development project 215
Ragu and others asked for further support from Parliament and Legislative
­Assembly politicians, but few responded. Consequently, members of the
Samiti, women in particular, showed their anger towards these politicians in
unique ways; for example, when one of these politicians visited Bajpe, women
aggregated and raised their sandals in unison to demonstrate their discontent.
In January 2008, people in opposition to the land acquisition plans held a large-
scale demonstration attended by more than 6,000 people. On this ­occasion,
representatives of several political parties, such as the Bahujan ­Samaj Party
(BSP), Samajwadi Party (SP), and Communist Party of India (CPI), expressed
their support for the antidevelopment movement.3 In addition, even among the
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), some politicians conveyed their support for the
movement (see The Hindu 2008).4 Due to the ceaseless ­effort of farmers within
and beyond the Samiti, in August 2010 the government finally ­cancelled its
land acquisition plan for the second phase of the MSEZ.
While from the perspective of the Kavaramane guttu, traditional author-
ity and the unity of village society were most important, Ragu’s story il-
lustrates a different dimension of the antidevelopment movement. Namely,
the people’s movement against land acquisition did not necessarily depend
on the leadership of the top guttu family. Rather, it was the protest by vil-
lagers against the large enterprise and the objections of small farmers to
some landlords who promoted land transference that led to the movement’s
success.
For the landlords, such as the Āgalu guttu, who live in urban areas while
owning many acres in a rural area, it is an attractive option to transfer the
land to the company and receive compensation. Still, there are some land-
lords who have great affection for the land and nature and decide to protect
it. Even among the landlords who hold a vast amount of land, attitudes and
decisions regarding development projects are not uniform. Meanwhile, for
the small farmers who have long made their living through cultivation and
have no property other than land, the protection of their land is vital be-
cause it is very difficult for them to maintain their livelihoods only through
the company’s compensation.5
The actions of the farmer-led Samiti aimed to stop the landlord who col-
laborated with the company and promoted land transference. In the process,
their movement gained support beyond the local community, and by linking
various actors and organisations, they successfully created a groundswell
of opposition to development. It is also noteworthy that Dalit activists such
as Ragu played a central role in the movement. In fact, engagement in the
antidevelopment movement formed a turning point in his life. Thanks to
his contributions to the Samiti, in 2009 he was selected as the president of
the village panchayat, which is in charge of both Tenka Yekkar and Badaga
Yekkar.
As seen above, a movement that arose against land acquisition has since
brought broader changes in social relations and the villagers’ lives, al-
though they had initially longed for constancy in their lives. Through this
216 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
movement, differences between landlords’ and small farmers’ stances to-
wards the development project have surfaced. The new situation also seems
to upturn the existing power relations in this rural community—i.e. a move-
ment led by small farmers, especially Dalits and women, won out over a
large enterprise and allied landlords.
The above investigation reveals multiple aspects of the movement that
brought about the cancellation of the second phase of the MSEZ. The move-
ment was based on the solidarity of landlords and other villagers who were
closely related to the land, nature, and deities in the area; and the deities’ oracle
functioned as the driving force for the people’s movement. Another aspect of
the movement was that it represented the objections of small farmers against
the landlord who promoted land transference. Moreover, as we will see later,
this movement developed in the midst of disputes and negotiations concerning a
place called Kuḍubi Padavụ among various actors, including landlords, former
tenants, company executives, politicians, social activists, and a religious leader.
As shown in this section, in the encroachment of the development pro-
ject and the subsequent expansion of the antidevelopment movement in re-
sponse, the deities’ orders to protect the land, nature, and shrine have played
a vital role in directing people’s actions and decision-making. The deities’
guidance, however, can never guarantee the success of people’s movements
against land acquisition. The force of the deities often binds people to their
land, and conflicting divine forces move disputes in unexpected directions.
Focusing on on-going disputes and movements over land acquisition in the
following sections, I will further investigate the discord and turmoil that
the development project has created, and how people strain to create new
relationships with land, nature, and deities.

Obeying the deity and protesting against land acquisition

As seen in the last section, in 2008 in the Bajpe area, a large-scale antidevel-
opment movement emerged and grew. As a result, in August 2010 the chief
minister of the state of Karnataka gave the order not to expropriate the land
for the second phase of the MSEZ; and in July 2011, land acquisition notifi-
cations for most of the area were finally withdrawn. In reality, however, the
land struggles of the villagers did not end with this order, because the land
exempted from acquisition only accounted for 1,998 acres of the total 2,035
acres of the planned second-phase construction site. Construction work never
stopped on the remaining 37 acres of land or on the first-phase site, which
the company had already expropriated. Therefore, as we will see below, the
villagers who lived on these sites have continued fighting to reclaim their land.
Focusing on the Nellidādi guttu family in Bajpe, I will examine below
how the deity they worship forms the basis for their decision-making and
protests against land acquisition. I will also investigate what role the ­deity
plays in negotiation between the guttu family and the company. In the next
section, I will clarify how the problem before the Nellidādi guttu has not
 Būtas in the development project 217
simply been brought by the development project, but is also rooted in a
long-term conflict between the Nellidādi and another guttu family over būta
worship. In these investigations, the ambivalent attitude of the landlords
towards the development project once again comes to the fore; at the same
time, it becomes clear that the deity, who orders the guttu family to protect
their land, ironically drives them into a difficult situation.

Violent land acquisition and Jumādi’s agency

The Nellidādi guttu premises are on a hill set far back from the main road.
Most of the woods around the house have already been cleared; several
dump trucks come and go, raising clouds of dust. The hilltop overlooks a
chemical factory owned by American capital as well as labourers’ lodgings
at the foot of the hill. Pointing at a rice field filled with mud, Kishore, a
member of the Nellidādi guttu, said, ‘That was also our field. They came
with heavy machines and dumped mud onto it’.6
In the early stage of the development project, the land of the Nellidādi
guttu family became the object of land acquisition as the construction site
for the first phase of the MSEZ. As of 2015, despite most of their farmland
having already been acquired by the company and construction work on it
already underway, the family steadfastly opposes the company and seeks to
protect their house and the būta shrine.
According to Lakshman Chowta, the head of the Nellidādi guttu family,
the Nellidādi is one of the 16 manor houses in the village and has a history
of 800 years. The family has been responsible for the rituals for a būta called
Jumādi, who is worshipped by the entire village. Jumādi’s shrine is on the
Nellidādi guttu’s premises, and water from a sacred well for the deity is be-
lieved to be holy water efficacious against snakebites.
Similar to most farmers in this area, the Nellidādi family members have
made their living mainly through rice cultivation. It was not until 2005,
when the company started to survey their land, that the Nellidādis noticed
that a project was even going on in this area. ‘At that time, we didn’t know
what they were going to do’, said Lakshman. In 2007, the guttu family re-
ceived notification from the government that 35 acres of their land was to
be acquired by the company. Despite the family’s protests, 3 acres of their
land was forcibly acquired in 2011, and several houses, including Kishore’s,
were demolished.7 In May 2012, some 300 workers, including hired thugs,
came to the family’s land with heavy machines, dumped tons of mud onto
their fields, and destroyed their farm products. Lakshman and some other
family members, who tried to stop them, were injured by the thugs. One of
the thugs spoke violently to Lakshman:

You got money from the government and yet you’re still here. If you’re
not leaving, then how about we just kill you and bury you under the
mud?
218 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Upon receiving a telephone call from Lakshman, the aforementioned social
activist Vidya hurried there with a TV camera crew and captured the scene
of bulldozers destroying the farmland while the women and children of the
guttu family looked on, sobbing. In front of the TV camera crew, Lakshman
depicted the current predicament of the historic Nellidādi guttu family as
being caused by the company. Through the help of Vidya, the incident was
broadcast on local TV and online and attracted popular attention. In June
2012, the family filed a case against the company with the high court of
­Karnataka, and this issue is still in dispute.
With the help of social activists, the Nellidādi guttu family has thus strived
to protest against the company that has used violent means to acquire land.
In their mass media representation, they are the victims of a cruel devel-
opment project and idealised peasant-subjects protesting exploitation. The
reason they accept neither evacuation nor compensation, however, is not
simply their affection for the land and their dignity as farmers. The biggest
factor in why they cannot leave their land is the powerful deity Jumādi. As
we will see below, protests against land acquisition were actually imposed
on the guttu family by the supreme order of Jumādi.

The deity as the supreme commander

This case reveals not only the physical and legal conflicts between the
­company and the guttu family but also their spiritual battle. As described,
the Nellidādi guttu worships the powerful būta Jumādi, and just after their
conflict with the company, they held a yearly ritual (nēma) for this deity.
At the ritual, the deity—incarnated in a medium—gave them an oracle:

I’m not leaving here. I want this house. This is my house. Let them [the
MSEZL officers] touch the threshold of my shrine; then I will show
them who I am!

For the members of the Nellidādi guttu, the oracle was received as a strict
order to prevent the company from invading their land. For them, not
to obey the deity’s order would mean to accept the danger of receiving
her curse. As already seen, a village deity like Jumādi is thought to em-
body the realm of the wild, and thus to have power to decide the fate of
the whole village. Only worshipping the village deity and receiving her
blessing can promise the peace and prosperity of the guttu family and the
whole village, while her anger and curse may endanger their continued
existence. At odds with the mass media’s image of the deity as a positive
and static icon of the villagers’ identity, the family’s obedience to the deity
is rooted in their desire for protection from her and their fear of her curse
(cf. Shah 2010, p. 117).
In the case of the Nellidādi guttu’s struggle against the company, ­Lakshman
and his family members have acted as political subjects, filing a case against
 Būtas in the development project 219
the company and using the mass media to draw public ­attention. At the
same time, they have maintained an intimate relationship with Jumādi and
have continued to obey her supreme orders. Following Jumādi’s orders,
they have made desperate efforts to hold onto their ancestral land and būta
shrine, long after most villagers have migrated to other places. Regarding
Jumādi’s power against company pressure, Lakshman said:

Thanks to the daiva, we are still here. Without daiva’s power, they would
have demolished this house a long time ago.
(Lakshman Chowta, 1 September 2012)

As this statement shows, for them, it is by the deity’s mercy that they still
remain on their own land. At the same time, it should not be overlooked
that the reason they cannot leave the land is because of the deity’s order.
Their actions and decisions concerning the land acquisition plan depend on
Jumādi, who is their supreme commander.
Next, I will examine an annual ritual in the Nellidādi guttu house, in
which the company officers and Jumādi incarnated in a medium interacted
with each other, and the deity’s oracle influenced their decision-making.

Officers in ritual and Jumādi’s agency

The participants in the nēma held at the Nellidādi guttu house in 2012 were
not limited to the Nellidādi family and other villagers. Interestingly, ­several
MSEZL officers also attended the ritual with the intention of asking the
deity’s permission to relocate her shrine. In the ritual, the conversation
­between the deity and the officers went this way:

JUMĀDI: This is my land. I won’t leave it.

MSEZL OFFICER: We will arrange everything for you. We will construct a
new shrine for you.
JUMĀDI: You can do anything with my shrine, but will you be able to set the
foundation stone of my well in another place? Can you move my well?
MSEZL OFFICER: Then we will have to take this issue to the centre [central
government].
JUMĀDI: I am the centre!

After this ritual, the officers discussed this issue and decided to suspend the
acquisition of the Nellidādi guttu’s land, including the būta shrine and its
well. This case shows that the guttu’s land was saved thanks to the deity’s
orders, even if only temporarily. As seen in this case, the agency of the būtas
has had a great effect on the people involved in the conflict over the devel-
opment project, even on the company’s side. Before considering this point
more deeply, next I will investigate the relationship between the develop-
ment project, local politics in the village, and būta worship.
220 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Conflict between guttu families and the politics
of land acquisition
It bears repeating that būta worship has often been described by the mass
media and social activists as being the basis of the local people’s identity and
their protests against the development project. The villagers facing pressure
regarding land acquisition, however, do not always share this view or share
an identity based on būta worship; while būta worship has the power to
bring people together, it has also caused conflicts and splits in village com-
munities. In particular, as seen in the previous section, most landlords see
an opportunity to gain large profits by transferring their land to the com-
pany, but their duty is to protect the village land, nature, and būta worship.
Their ambivalent position leads to differences among landlords’ attitudes
and decision-making concerning the development project.
As I will examine in this section, the development project’s advancement
has created new disputes among the people in the Bajpe area, but an analysis
of antecedent disputes at the village community level is necessary to under-
stand the structure of these new disputes.

Prelude to the division of the village: a lawsuit over the būta shrine
As seen in the last section, the Nellidādi guttu has found itself in the predic-
ament of having their farmland destroyed and facing continued pressure of
company acquisition regarding the land that has thus far narrowly escaped
destruction. Most of the villagers have already migrated to other areas, so
the Nellidādi guttu house remains like a solitary island in the midst of the
construction site. Why have the Nellidādi family been put in such a difficult
situation despite their status and prestige in the village as a historic guttu
house? To understand the reasons for this, it is necessary to consider the
long-lasting dispute between the Nellidādi guttu and the first-ranked guttu
in Bajpe.
There are 16 guttu houses in Bajpe, which are ordered hierarchically from
the first to the sixteenth. Like in other villages in this area, the ranking of
the guttu houses in Bajpe is inseparable from būta worship. The rank of
each house is believed to have been decided by the deity in the mythical past.
In addition, in the yearly ritual, these ranks are manifested and approved
when the deity gives blessings to the head of each guttu house according
to its rank. Among the several guttu houses in a given village, the head of
the first-ranked guttu usually takes charge of the būta worship at the vil-
lage level. In the case of Bajpe, however, the Nellidādi guttu, which is the
fourth-ranked guttu, has played the central role in the worship of Jumādi.
The shrine of Jumādi is on the estate of the Nellidādi guttu house, and only
male members of this family are selected for the role of the gaḍipatinārụ.
The status of the Nellidādi guttu family based on their role in Jumādi
worship became especially salient when the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu, the first-ranked
 Būtas in the development project 221
guttu in Bajpe, started to claim its own trustee rights of the Jumādi shrine.
I will next examine the process of this dispute by focusing on a lawsuit
between the Nellidādi guttu head Lakshman as the plaintiff and State of
Karnataka, the Deputy Commissioner for Hindu Religious and Charitable
Endowments, the Assistant Commissioner for Hindu Religious and Chari-
table Endowments, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu head D. Rai, and seven other villag-
ers as defendants.
First it is helpful to have a brief outline of the background of this
­lawsuit. According to a document submitted by D. Rai on 23 May 2001
to the ­Assistant Commissioner, D. Rai and other devotees of Jumādi held
a meeting on 13 May and decided to found a management committee for
the Jumādi shrine. Nine villagers were selected as committee members with
five-year terms, while D. Rai was selected as trustee for life. According to
D. Rai, Lakshman Chowta from the Nellidādi guttu was selected as one
of the committee members. However, Lakshman insisted in his own letter
to the Assistant Commissioner on 21 May 2001 that he had already been
selected as trustee of the Jumādi shrine in a meeting held on 11 May at the
Nellidādi guttu house. To look into this issue, the Assistant Commissioner
sent an investigator to Bajpe to interview both parties. As a result, the
­Assistant Commissioner questioned the legitimacy of the meeting held at
the ­Nellidādi guttu house and approved instead the decision of the newly
established management committee led by D. Rai. The lawsuit examined
below was filed as a complaint from the Nellidādi guttu regarding the Assistant
Commissioner’s decision.
According to the judicial record (Writ Petition No. 40504 of 2001) of the
High Court of Karnataka, D. Rai and other eight members were a­ ppointed
by the Assistant Commissioner as the managers of Sri Kanthanadhikari
Daivasthana (i.e. the Jumādi shrine) in Bajpe on 29 September 2001.
­Lakshman, however, filed a case insisting that the Nellidādi guttu had al-
ways been the hereditary trustee of the shrine and thus that the Assistant
Commissioner’s appointments were invalid. Lakshman’s advocate argued
that although the Assistant Commissioner’s appointment of the trustee was
based on sections 39–42 of the Madras Hindu Religious and Charitable
­Endowments Act, 1951, these sections had been nullified by the High Court,
as affirmed by the Supreme Court. Therefore, the Assistant Commissioner
had no jurisdiction to appoint the trustee.
The following judgement was pronounced on this case in February 2002:
the plaintiff insisted that he was the hereditary trustee of the shrine, but did
not submit any documents which could prove his status. Because the plaintiff
continued as a trustee based only on the wishes of the deity and astrology,
he should be regarded not as the hereditary trustee but as the person ap-
pointed by the devotees of the deity. Therefore, he had no authority to take
exception to the decision of the Assistant Commissioner. In addition, the ap-
pointment by the Assistant Commissioner was not based on sections 39–42
of the ­Madras Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments Act. Rather,
222 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the Assistant Commissioner only approved the selection of the trustee by the
devotees of the deity (i.e. D. Rai and other villagers). Therefore, the plaintiff’s
claim that the appointment by the Assistant Commissioner had been unjust
was invalid. As a result, the appeal by Lakshman was dismissed.
The dispute between the Nellidādi guttu and the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu, how-
ever, was still not settled. Even after this judgement, the Nellidādi guttu
continuously insisted on their rights as hereditary trustee as ordered by the
deity, while the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu insisted on their rights as official trustee as
authorised by the government. Regarding this, I will next examine the law-
suit (Writ Petition No. 18958 of 2007) filed by Lakshman at the High Court
of Karnataka against the Deputy Commissioner for Hindu Religious and
Charitable Endowments in Dakshina Kannada and D. Rai.
In 2007, Lakshman filed a case against the Deputy Commissioner’s order
appointing D. Rai as the trustee of the Jumādi shrine and rejecting ­Lakshman
as the hereditary trustee. In the January 2009 judgement of the case, the judge
listed the people appointed as trustees of the Jumādi shrine and pointed out
that there was no document that could prove the relationship between the
previous trustees and Lakshman; moreover, he emphasised that they had
not been appointed as hereditary trustees. While the judge admitted that
the ­Nellidādi guttu family had contributed to the management of the Jumādi
shrine, he pointed out that the shrine (referred to in the court record as ‘tem-
ple’) was not a private religious institution belonging to a particular family,
but a ‘public temple under the control of the Muzarai Department in the State
of Karnataka’. The judge thus decided that the order by the Deputy Commis-
sioner was valid, and hence the appeal by Lakshman was dismissed again.
As seen above, through a series of disputes over the trusteeship of the
Jumādi shrine, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu achieved legal status as the trustee, while
the Nellidādi guttu, who had been the hereditary trustee appointed by the
deity, was disregarded. In addition to the legal disputes, before 2010 D. Rai
and other members of the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu published a pamphlet on the
Jumādi shrine, which contained their history of the shrine with photos of
the core members of the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu as the trustees. In this pamphlet,
the Nellidādi guttu house was referred to as the ‘treasure house’ to store the
paraphernalia for the būta ritual, and there was no account of the role of
the Nellidādi guttu as the main patron of the ritual. The pamphlet thus pro-
moted the centrality of the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu in Jumādi worship, while the role
of the Nellidādi guttu was intentionally marginalised.
The disputes between the two houses have influenced relationships
among the villagers as well as the būta ritual in the village. For instance,
although the paraphernalia kept in the Nellidādi guttu house used to be
circulated among several guttu houses during the nēma, since the dispute
this practice has stopped. Among the villagers, the difference of opinion be-
tween the Nellidādi side and the Suṅḍoṭṭu side became obvious. The disputes
over the trusteeship of the būta shrine have thus caused discord among the
villagers and created a schism.
 Būtas in the development project 223
The landlord as broker for the development project
When looking at the disputes over the Jumādi shrine, we can see a clear
contrast in the arguments of the two parties. Namely, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu
planned to achieve and justify their rights in the shrine by modern and of-
ficial means, such as the foundation of a management committee and the
appointment of trustees by the government. Meanwhile, based on the deity’s
oracle and oral epics, the Nellidādi guttu has strived to keep their conven-
tional rights and status as the main patron of the shrine. The assertion of the
Nellidādi guttu based on the deity’s order, however, did not lend itself well
to litigation in the modern courts, and the appeals of Lakshman were dis-
missed twice (it is also worth noting that a similar contrast can be observed
in the dispute examined in Chapter 8 between the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu and the
management committee).
This contrast between the approaches of the two guttus is even more ob-
vious in their attitudes towards the development project. Near the end of the
first decade of the 2000s, when the land acquisition plan was raised, D. Rai
of the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu came to play the role of broker, mediating between the
villagers and the company. Most of the villagers, excluding the Nellidādi
guttu and several other families, followed his advice and handed over their
land to the company and migrated to the rehabilitation area. The Suṅḍoṭṭu
guttu family, who worshipped a deity called Tappaidi in their house, also left
their land. They brought along this deity’s paraphernalia after performing
a ritual to temporarily extract the deity’s power (ākarṣaṇɛ) from these items.
The situation of the higher-ranked guttu family deciding to transfer their
land to the company and persuading other villagers to transfer their land
is similar to the case seen in Tenka Yekkar. In Tenka Yekkar, however, the
Āgalu guttu who promoted land transfer was an absentee landlord, while
the Kavaramane guttu living in the village decided to protect the land based
on their close relationships with the other villagers. In addition, there were
some people like Ragu who could organise small farmers against land ac-
quisition without needing to depend on the landlords. For these reasons, the
villagers in Tenka Yekkar were successful in advancing the antidevelopment
movement.
In Bajpe, meanwhile, in addition to the villagers being split due to the
dispute between the major guttu families, land transfer here was promoted
by the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu, who had occupied the central position in the village
as the first guttu as well as the trustee of the village būta shrine. Under these
conditions, it was quite difficult for the villagers in Bajpe to organise a pro-
test movement against land acquisition. Indeed, most villagers relinquished
their land and left the village, leaving only the Nellidādi guttu and a few
families behind with the Jumādi shrine.
In Bajpe, the intrusion of the development project thus revealed discord
and fissures among the villagers, which had grown slowly over a long period
of time. Here, Jumādi’s orders to protect the land, nature, and the village
224 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
shrine spurred the Nellidādi guttu, the de facto trustee, to protest against
land acquisition and stay on their land. Meanwhile, for the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu,
the development project offered them the chance to gain compensation both
for their own land transfer and for their services as a broker. Moreover, it
gave them the opportunity to demonstrate their status and power as the
first-rank guttu family in the village.
As already seen, D. Rai and other members of the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu family
had taken various measures to obtain and justify trusteeship of the Jumādi
shrine. Their attitude towards cooperating with the company for land ac-
quisition, while seeking trusteeship of the village būta shrine based on land
and nature, seems inconsistent. When we consider, however, that Jumādi
is the village deity whose worship is closely linked to prestige, power, and
honour in the village community, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu’s strategy makes more
sense. Through lawsuits over the trusteeship of the shrine, they were seeking
authority and prestige as representatives of the village. Their goal was to ac-
quire officially the position of magnate of the village, i.e. the top guttu and
trustee of the village shrine. With this aim, they contacted the company and
led negotiations regarding land acquisition and villager migration.
Unlike the Nellidādi guttu, who decided to remain in the village with
Jumādi, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu decided to take responsibility for moving their
deity and fellow villagers to another area. Migration is, of course, one pos-
sible option for landlords facing advancing development projects that are
seeking to acquire land. Contrary to their expectations, however, this mi-
gration of people and deities is not always successful, but can cause various
problems regarding their resettlement. Focusing on a place called Kuḍubi
Padavụ in Permude village, I will next examine disputes caused by the mi-
gration of newcomers—along with their deities.

Disputes over land, rivalries over deities

As seen in Chapter 11, in the disputes over landownership between land-
lords and tenants, the deities worshipped on the land in question often con-
tributed to maintaining the original land rights by deterring tenants, who
feared the deity’s curse, from applying for land transfers. Although the case
examined in this section is also a dispute between a landlord family and
former tenants, the structure of the dispute is more complex due to its rela-
tion to the development project. In this case in Kuḍubi Padavụ, the landlord
family had immigrated to the area, while the tenants were the original in-
habitants. As we will see, the entanglement of relations between the original
inhabitants, newcomers, land, and deities created new disputes over land
rights and the authority of the deities. Among them, one of the main dis-
putes concerning būta worship became the rivalry between the royal būtas
worshipped by the landlord and the lower-ranked būtas worshipped by the
former tenants, and there was disagreement over where and by whom the
village deity should be worshipped.
 Būtas in the development project 225
Below, I will first briefly overview the characteristics of the lower-ranked
būtas who are mainly worshipped by the former tenants and day workers
in this area. These būtas are different in many ways from the rājanụ daivas
or royal būtas examined in Part One. Next, focusing on Permude village,
which had been partly acquired by the MSEZ, I will examine the conflict
between the Baṇṭa landlords, who transferred their land to the company and
migrated to Kuḍubi Padavụ, and the Kuḍubis already there.

The worship of wild būtas

As mentioned in Chapter 3, the people in South Kanara worship not only
the royal būtas who occupy higher positions in the hierarchy of deities, but
also lower-ranked būtas called ‘kāṭụ (wild, undomesticated) būta’. In Bajpe
and neighbouring villages including Permude and Perar, there are numerous
small shrines for these būtas. Unlike the royal būtas whose worship is organ-
ised mainly by the guttus, the worship of these lower-ranked būtas such as
Kallurṭi, Satyadēvate, Mantradēvate, and Guliga is conducted by the head
of one family. Among them, in addition to the land būtas who are insepa-
rable from particular lands, there are būtas who are believed to ‘come into
(baidena)’ the house for various reasons. For instance, a family might begin
worshipping Mantradēvate when one of the family members experiences
some misfortune and receives advice from an astrologer to worship the būta
that may have caused the problem.8 These būtas occupy a more marginal
position compared to the royal būtas, and they are worshipped mostly not by
landlords but by former tenants and agricultural workers. I will now present
some typical cases that illustrate how people start worshipping kāṭụ būtas.9
Case 1 Sudden possession by Mantradēvate
Kuḍubi, a former tenant family. Pande (31) and Vedapati (30) were married
in 2006. Soon afterwards, Vedapati started suffering seizures of trembling,
which was thought to be a sign of spirit possession. Once a seizure started,
nobody could stop her strange behaviour such as trying to throw herself
into a well or suddenly running to her mother’s house. Pande first consulted
with a Brahman priest at Katir Temple in Mangaluru, who advised him not
to believe in evil spirits. The condition of his wife, however, was growing
worse. Then suddenly a deity possessed Vedapati and requested that they
conduct a ritual. This time, Pande consulted an astrologer about the prob-
lem. The astrologer told him that it was Mantradēvate who had possessed
his wife, and then he performed a ritual to transfer the deity’s power from
Vedapati to a statue (pāpɛ). After this, the couple has made daily offerings
of flowers and a glass of water to the statue and has conducted a yearly ritual
for Mantradēvate.
Case 2 Mantradēvate’s arrival through illness
Belcaḍe, a family of former agricultural workers. In 2001, Laita (48) be-
came ill. When she consulted an astrologer about her illness, she was ad-
vised to worship Mantradēvate. At that time, however, she could not set up
226 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
an altar for the deity because she was living in a rented room. Additionally,
Mamata (28), the daughter of Laita, developed a gynaecological disorder
after she and her mother moved to one of the 5-cent plots prepared by the
government. When they consulted a priest (māni) of Mantradēvate, they
were told that the deity had come from Laita’s mother’s house. In the ritual
performed by the priest, the two women made an oath in front of a coconut,
the incarnation of the deity’s power, that they would worship Mantradē-
vate if she [the deity] would cure Mamata’s illness. After that, they asked a
­Brahman priest to perform a ritual to transfer the deity’s power from the
coconut to a statue, and they washed the coconut down the river.
Case 3 The spell of jāgeda daiva (land būtas)
Pūjāri, a family of former agricultural workers. This family worships two
land būtas, Kallurṭi Paṅjūrli and Satyadēvate, as well as Mantradēvate. Ac-
cording to Sarasvati (38), the land būtas bind her family to their current
residence. Once the family of her late husband had performed a ritual to
move these būtas to their ancestral home, but it was not successful. Though
Sarasvati bought a 5-cent plot, she is still hesitant to leave these deities be-
hind and move to the new place, for fear of their curse.
As seen in these cases, lower-ranked būtas often have dangerous features
related to curses, misfortune, and sorcery. It can also be observed that wor-
ship of these būtas is not systematic and formal, but personal and informal.
As seen in Chapter 6, the royal būtas also embody dangerous wild śakti, and
their worship is also based on devotees’ fear of the deities’ curses, which are
inseparable from their blessings. However, while the worship of royal būtas
is the core of the local political economy, such as reinforcing land tenure and
the hierarchy of houses, relations between the lower-ranked būtas and their
devotees are rather more private and accidental.
Keeping the difference between royal būtas and kāṭụ būtas in mind, next I
will examine a dispute between a landlord family and a former tenant family
in Permude, a dispute caused by the development project.

The immigration of a landlord family and pressure on former tenants

The Tōdu guttu is the top manor family in Permude. According to B. Shetty,
one of the family elders, the Tōdu guttu has a history of about thousand
years. This family has a Hindu temple called the Sōmanāthēśvara temple
and a būta shrine in which Koḍamaṇittāya and four other būtas are en-
shrined. The yearly ritual for these būtas has long been held in Permude and
four adjacent villages in turn.
In 2006, when the MSEZ expanded into Permude, the estate of the Tōdu
guttu also became a target of land acquisition. The family decided to hand
over their land to the company and migrate with other villagers to the reha-
bilitation area, which was also part of Permude. Regarding this, B. Shetty
proudly told me that all the temples and shrines in the village had been
moved to a new place in the most respectful way, performing every necessary
 Būtas in the development project 227
ritual process. He named the rehabilitation area ‘Sri Sōmanāthādama’ after
the name of their temple.10
However, their new residential site, Kuḍubi Padavụ, was of course not
a no-man’s land, but was an area already inhabited by a local community
of people called the Kuḍubi. According to Giriya Gauda, one of the elders
of the main Kuḍubi family in this area, their family is composed of four
branches that are traced back to four male ancestors.11 In addition to vil-
lage deities including Nāgabramma and Paṅjūrli, they worship several būtas
such as Kallurṭi Paṅjūrli and Satyadēvate. According to him, this area was
originally the property of Pējāvara Mutt, a famous Hindu mutt in Udupi,
and the Kuḍubis were the tenants of the land. When land reform legislation
was implemented in 1974, they applied for land rights and received 16 acres
from the government. Since then, they have made their living by farming
this land.
However, in 2008, in the middle of the night, a group of thugs hired by the
company attacked their paddy fields. They dumped mud everywhere and
destroyed all of the farm products. After this, the company forcefully filled
in the Kuḍubis’ fields and turned them into a new residential site. It was the
Tōdu guttu family who came to this new site.
Today, Kuḍubi Padavụ is starkly divided into two areas: one is the so-
called rehabilitation area, where new residences have been built, and the
other is the colony of the original inhabitants. In the rehabilitation area, the
Tōdu guttu built a magnificent shrine to Kodamanittāya. In the original col-
ony meanwhile, one can find empty shrines from which villagers took their
būta statues when they left due to company pressure. Unsurprisingly, rela-
tions between the newcomers and the original inhabitants have become very
strained. A Kuḍubi woman told me that she had stopped going out after
dark, because she came to feel that she would be putting herself in danger.
As seen above, the situation in Permude village is more complex than in
the usual MSEZL land acquisition process. In this case, the guttu family
who acquired compensation and left their land migrated to a new area, from
which they consequently forced the original inhabitants to evacuate. When
we focus on the class of these two parties, this situation can be analysed as
a conflict over land rights between landlords and former tenants. Mean-
while, if we focus on būta worship, it can be analysed as a process in which
the new būta shrine built by the newcomer guttu family became more and
more influential in this area, while the local deities worshipped by the origi-
nal inhabitants came to be marginalised. Among the deities worshipped by
the Kuḍubis, however, there remain several powerful land būtas. As seen
in the previous section, a būta deeply connected to particular land often
binds the devotees to the land and demands persistent protests against land
acquisition. This is also the case in Kuḍubi Padavụ.
In addition to the ordinal būta shrines and altars, the Kuḍubis worship
a big stone called the ‘deity’s stone (būta kallụ)’. The officers of the com-
pany, who promoted land acquisition in Kuḍubi Padavụ and developing the
228 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
land as a rehabilitation area, have requested that the Kuḍubis take the stone
away. According to Giriya Gauḍa, the officers offered to bear the cost of
constructing a new būta shrine in another place. The Kuḍubis rejected this
offer because, as Giriya said, ‘The daiva is tied to this land’.
Regarding this event, Mārappa Gauḍa, a relative of Giriya, told me: ‘They
stole our land and destroyed our farm products, but they could not remove
the deity’s stone’. According to him, the officers did not have the courage
to remove the stone by themselves, fearing the deity’s curse, and therefore
asked the Kuḍubis to take it away.
As seen in the previous section, while the company officers promote land
acquisition and the destruction of villages and their būta shrines, on occa-
sions such as rituals or face-to-face negotiations with villagers, they often
express awe of the deities and behave like ordinary devotees. When focusing
on people’s relationships with deities, both the villagers and the company
officers share the position of recipient of the deities’ overwhelming agency.
In Permude, the lives of the Kuḍubis were threatened due to the migration
of the landlord family and other villagers. Meanwhile, thanks to the power
of the lower-ranked, wild būtas, the original inhabitants managed to keep
their ties to the land. As we will see in the next section, however, the situation
of Kuḍubi Padavụ changed when it became a centre of the antidevelopment
movement that resulted in the retraction of the second phase of the MSEZ.

A religious leader fasting against the development project

As seen above, relying on the power of wild būtas, the Kuḍubis have protested
against the harassment they have received from the company and the powerful
guttu family. Beginning in 2008, their antidevelopment movement gradually
attracted the attention of the mass media and gained support from social ac-
tivists. Moreover, Kuḍubi Padavụ moved into the limelight when a ­famous
guru declared his support for the Kuḍubis. The guru, named Vishwesha
­Teertha Swamiji, was born in 1931 and served as an adviser to Vishwa Hindu
Parisad (VHP), also known as the World Hindu Association. He was also a
religious leader of the Pējāvara Mutt, the former landlord of Kuḍubi Padavụ.
Swamiji first became involved in the antidevelopment movement after
he was eagerly approached by social activists. The activists, who assisted
farmers facing eviction from their land, were searching for religious leaders
who would support their movement. For them, Swamiji was a very impor-
tant figure because he had great influence within the BJP, the then ruling
party of the state government (see Gowda 2011; The New Indian Express
2011; ­Daijiworld 2014).12 Regarding this, Vidya Dinker, who has supported
the antidevelopment movement in this area since 2007, told me,

He [Swamiji] has great power as one of the leaders of the VHP. We knew
that the state government couldn’t ignore him if he performed a fast.
(Vidya Dinker, 17 August 2015)
 Būtas in the development project 229
Though the social activists attempted to use him strategically, soon they
realised that the influence of Swamiji exceeded their expectations. He built
up a strong protest movement against the development project using various
means such as doing interviews with the press, talking with the then chief
minister, and, above all, fasting. He not only criticised the development pro-
ject in general, but also expressed his concern about the predicament of the
small farmers in Kuḍubi Padavụ. He also questioned the Tōdu guttu’s plan
to establish their right to occupation through the use of rituals.
As mentioned, the Tōdu guttu had moved the statues of deities from their
original shrine and had started to build a new shrine in Kuḍubi Padavụ. In
May 2008, just before their migration, they performed a ritual at the orig-
inal shrine in which several MSEZ officers participated. By attending the
ritual organised by the guttu family, the officers intended to show the vil-
lagers the appropriateness of their land acquisition and the relocation of the
shrine. This event, however, was regarded as proof of a conspiracy between
the company and the guttu family who promoted land transfer, and thus fed
the accusations of social activists and inhabitants of Kuḍubi Padavụ.
In the ensuing tense situation, the Tōdu guttu advanced the construction
of the new shrine, and in April 2009, they planned to organise a grand ritual
ceremony made up of punarụ pratiṣṭhɛ (ritual of rebuilding) and brahmakal-
aśa (ritual of purification).13 These rituals would symbolise the completion
of the settlement of both the guttu people and their deities on the land. As
soon as he heard about this plan, Swamiji decided to launch a protest against
the rituals, which were being conducted against the will of the original in-
habitants. He started fasting at Pējāvara Mutt on the day before the rituals,
and he continued to fast for the whole day at Permude village on the very
day of the rituals. Many locals joined him to protest against the rituals and
also urged the government to give the Kuḍubis back their land. At a press
conference, Swamiji told reporters that he would not lead the agitation, but
that he would be on the side of the victims. He also said he would speak to
the chief minister and explain the plight of the displaced.
These efforts by Swamiji not only encouraged the Kuḍubis, but also led
to repercussions among the members of the BJP, since they were very con-
cerned with keeping the political support of Pējāvara Mutt. Under pressure
from both inside and outside the party, in August 2010 the chief minister or-
dered the suspension of the planned second phase. After this order, Swamiji
continued to urge the government to halt the further acquisition of land.
On 12 July 2011, he declared that if the government did not immediately
suspend their plan to acquire 2,035 acres of land for the site of the second
phase, he would go on fasting for an indefinite period, starting the next day.
After hearing this final plea from Swamiji, the chief minister finally ordered
a halt to all further notices, and the expansion plan was revoked completely.
As seen above, the antidevelopment movement’s success in causing the
total retraction of the second phase of the MSEZ was brought about by
the activity of a religious leader supported by social activists as well as by
230 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
the expansion of small farmers’ protest movements. In the entanglements
of the intensions and power of various actors such as the guttu family, for-
mer tenants, company officers, social activists, religious leader, and politi-
cians, Kuḍubi Padavụ became the crucial place for questioning the propriety
of the entire development project. Ironically, however, the situation of the
Kuḍubi people remained totally unchanged, even after the withdrawal of
the land acquisition plan. This was because Kuḍubi Padavụ was regarded by
the state government as a place where land expropriation had already been
completed, and thus was excluded from any cancellation. As a result, the
Kuḍubis could neither fulfil their long-felt wish to take their land back nor
settle their dispute with the guttu family; they remained in the same predica-
ment as before. As we will see next, in these conditions, the relations among
people concerning Kuḍubi Padavụ can move in unexpected directions due to
the agency of the village deity manifested through astrology.

Regaining the village deity

After migrating to Kuḍubi Padavụ, the Tōdu guttu built a new shrine on
their new estate. Pilicāmuṇḍi, the royal būta worshipped by the villagers,
was one of the deities enshrined there. While B. Shetty, the head of the Tōdu
guttu, emphasised to me that the replacement of the būta shrine had been
smooth, Giriya Gauda and the priest of a Shiva temple in Permude named
R. Rao told me another story about the migration of the deity.14
According to them, before the villagers were forced to leave their land,
the shrine of Pilicāmuṇḍi had been located at a place in Permude called
Mukkodi. The shrine was worshipped as the village shrine believed to bring
prosperity to villagers, and the entire village participated in the yearly ritual.
When the Tōdu guttu decided to migrate from Mukkodi to Kuḍubi Padavụ,
however, they regarded the shrine as their private property and took the
deity’s statue with them without seeking or obtaining the other villagers’
agreement. After migrating, the guttu family enshrined Pilicāmuṇḍi in the
new shrine and then monopolised its management.
Meanwhile, in a grove near Kuḍubi Padavụ, there was a small old shrine
to Bramma, Raktēśvari, and Nāga. In 2013, a mutt called Taulava, which
had been managing this small shrine, organised a ritual in which a new
‘fact’ regarding this shrine was revealed through astrology. According to
the oracle, in addition to Bramma and Raktēśvari, Pilicāmuṇḍi had origi-
nally been enshrined there. Although some years ago Pilicāmuṇḍi had left
the other deities behind and moved to the shrine at Mukkodi, the deity’s
power still filled the old shrine. The oracle also said that, contrary to the
Tōdu guttu’s claim, Pilicāmuṇḍi had not actually shifted to the new shrine
at Kuḍubi Padavụ along with the guttu family, but had refused to move
and so still remained at the ruin of the shrine at Mukkodi, which had al-
ready become a construction site. Receiving this oracle with astonishment,
the villagers in Permude decided to refurbish the old shrine in the grove to
re-enshrine Pilicāmuṇḍi. In May 2013, the reconstruction of the old shrine
 Būtas in the development project 231
was completed, and most of the villagers in Permude, excluding the Tōdu
guttu, attended its inauguration ceremony.
This case shows the complex relations between the people, land, and dei-
ties, complicated by the migration of people and the shifting of deities. This
complexity stems significantly from the protean characteristics of the būtas
themselves: a deity is mobile, yet it is often tied to particular land; and the
power of particular deity is regarded as one and the same, yet it can be en-
shrined in many places.
In the case of Permude, the power of Pilicāmuṇḍi that had filled the orig-
inal shrine was believed to have moved to the one in Mukkodi, while also
retaining a strong connection to its origins. Then its statue was again shifted
by the Tōdu guttu to a new shrine in Kuḍubi Padavụ. From the Tōdu guttu’s
perspective, the deity was properly enshrined in the new shrine, and this one
must be the only shrine for Pilicāmuṇḍi. According to the oracle, however,
the power of the deity had never moved to the new shrine, but had remained
in both the shrine at Mukkodi and the old shrine in the grove. If this is true,
then for the villagers, the old shrine would now be the only place for wor-
shipping Pilicāmuṇḍi, since the shrine at Mukkodi has already been ruined
by the company. By participating in the refurbishing work of the old shrine,
and by attending the inauguration ceremony, not only the Kuḍubis who had
been in conflict with the Tōdu guttu, but also the other villagers expressed
their support for the astrological oracle and acted on its suggestion.
This case presents an alternative to the conventional view that būta wor-
ship is a means of justifying the authority of landlords in a rural community
(e.g. Gowda 2005). As this case shows, even the royal būtas, who are closely
related to guttu families in a village, do not always take their side. Rather,
if the guttus lose an appropriate relationship with the land and nature for
which they have responsibility, they may also lose the protection and bless-
ings of the deities. In Permude, the astrological oracle suggested that the re-
lationship between the Tōdu guttu and the village deity had been destroyed
because the guttu family had abandoned their land. Eventually, the villagers
who received the oracle fell away from the guttu family.
As seen in Chapter 8, in Perar, the response of the villagers to astro-
logical oracles brought about a new development in the dispute over the
management of the village būta shrine. Similarly, in Permude, the villagers’
decisions and actions based on astrological oracles, which represented the
deity’s agency, resulted in the isolation of the top guttu family and the recov-
ery of the worship of the village deity for all of the ordinary villagers.
These results brought Giriya, Mārappa, and other Kuḍubis feelings of
great relief and exaltation, since not only the lower-ranked būtas but also the
village deity was on their side. Vidya Dinker, who had long supported the
Kuḍubis, conveyed their feelings this way:

I remember when Giriya told me that Pilicāmuṇḍi would come here [the
old shrine in the grove]. They were all surprised and very excited … he told
me, ‘We could not achieve justice in court. Though politicians always
232 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
give us their word, they never give us justice. But now, Pilicāmuṇḍi is
here, and we can worship her by our hands. This is a form of justice’.
(Vidya Dinker, 14 March 2014)

As we have seen, in the wide-ranging activism against the development pro-

ject, the Kuḍubis came to play an important role through their protests,
which many regarded as a symbol of farmers’ rights to their land. When the
plan for the second phase of the MSEZ was withdrawn, however, their land
was excluded from the revocation of land acquisition. This fact also shocked
them and aroused their anger against the government.
The Kuḍubis have thus not only been jostled by the decisions and inten-
tions of landlords and politicians, but have also faced difficulties in relation
to modern law. As seen in previous chapters, since the colonial period, the
people in South Kanara have rearranged their relations with others, land,
and nature in between customary law and modern law, which are heter-
ogeneous but overlapping. Here, while modern law has pushed people to
reorganise their conventional social relations, it has also offered them a way
to flee from the hardships and restrictions of customary law, such as the
hierarchy and land tenure system in rural communities.
For the Kuḍubis, however, it was quite difficult to regain their land rights
through the modern legal system because they had very limited knowledge
and resources to appropriately utilise modern law. In this situation, for the
Kuḍubis, the experience of the village deity accepting their worship, while re-
fusing the guttu family’s, was thought of as achieving justice, but in a different
sense from modern politics and law. Moreover, the ordinary villagers’ deci-
sion to leave the guttu family who had abandoned the land and lost the deity’s
mercy, and these villagers’ reconstruction of the village shrine on their own,
changed the conventional power relations in the village; no longer did the
guttu family control the land and occupy the highest rank for būta worship.

People, deities, and the realm of the wild in the development project
In this chapter, I examined the influence of, and people’s various responses
to, the massive development project promoted in the Bajpe area, focusing on
būta worship. As land acquisition has advanced, būta worship has taken on a
new role as an icon of the antidevelopment movement. When we look closely
at people’s decisions and actions concerning the development project, how-
ever, the ambivalent aspects of būta worship become clear. For most villag-
ers, their protests against land acquisition spring from the deities’ commands
that they protect the land, nature, and būta shrines. At the same time, as seen
in the case of the Nellidādi guttu, these orders can work as a compelling force
to bind the people responsible for būta worship to their land.
It is also clear that landlords and small farmers have quite different po-
sitions towards the development project. The landlords who hold vast es-
tates often take an ambivalent position towards land acquisition, though
 Būtas in the development project 233
in a different sense from the ambivalence of deities. First, the development
project offers them a chance to gain a large amount of compensation for the
transference of their land. Second, due to their status and influence in their
village community, they have the opportunity to obtain even more profit as
brokers who mediate between villagers and the company to promote land
transfer.
The landlords are thus in a position to profit greatly from land trans-
ference at the initial stages; at the same time, they have a duty to organise
būta rituals and protect the land, nature, and the whole village. Therefore,
some guttus have decided not to transfer their land to the company and
have instead supported protest movements against land acquisition. For in-
stance, even when most villagers had left the village, the Nellidādi guttu
family decided to stay on their land and live in the difficult conditions of a
construction site.
Landlords such as Āgalu, Suṅḍoṭṭu, and Tōdu who decided to transfer
their land to the company, however, are also not totally indifferent to the
dissolution of the village and discontinuance of būta worship. For instance,
both the Suṅḍoṭṭu and Tōdu guttus planned to take other villagers as well
as deities along with them when they migrated to the rehabilitation area.
This fact suggests that they did not intend to destroy the village community
with the land transfers and migration, but rather planned to re-establish the
same social organisation and būta worship in their new dwelling place. For
them, the re-establishment of the village community would enable them to
maintain their status and authority.
In reality, however, even the head of a guttu family cannot easily move
the village būta, which is closely tied with the land and nature in the area
and forms the basis of village social relations. Therefore, the Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu
was obliged to leave the village deity in the original shrine, while the Tōdu
guttu tried the strategy of regarding the village shrine as their private prop-
erty and moved the statue enshrined within it. In both cases, village social
relations, being based on būta worship, have inevitably undergone great
changes.
Meanwhile, for the small farmers making their living by cultivating small
plots of land, land acquisition drastically changed their way of life. Follow-
ing the landlords’ advice or expecting MSEZ employment, some of them left
their land and migrated to the rehabilitation area. Most of them, however,
have protested against land acquisition in order to protect their lives and
farmlands. Supported by social activists and religious leaders, they have
developed an antidevelopment movement which succeeded in linking vil-
lagers and supporters from various places. They have gradually attracted
the attention of the mass media and have gained influence over company
officers and politicians. Moreover, being resonant with the deities’ agency
expressed in oracles, their activities directed towards maintaining the ties
between farmers, their land, and deities have brought about changes in the
power relations in the village community.
234 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
In the case of Permude, the Tōdu guttu regarded the development pro-
ject as a chance to obtain new profits and saw the village deity as an obsta-
cle to their migration plan, despite būta worship forming the basis for their
authority in the village community. As such, by constructing a magnifi-
cent shrine and performing grand rituals, they tried to portray the change
caused by migration not as a rupture of the normal relationship between
the villagers and the deity, but as its renewal and evolution. Their plan,
however, was disturbed by people’s criticism of the construction of the
new shrine, and it finally dissolved when the villagers instead followed an
oracle that rejected the deity’s migration and started worshipping the vil-
lage deity by themselves. Meanwhile, in their struggle to protect their land
and būta worship, the Kuḍubis brought about a change in village social
relations and also created a new form of būta worship independent of the
guttu family.
These cases show that the deities, even including royal būtas, do not al-
ways support the rights and authority of the higher-ranked guttus, but are
above all concerned with the relationship between the realms of humans
and the wild. The deities always ask the people to be appropriate for un-
dertaking adikāra to take charge of the būta rituals; and appropriateness
here entails the skill to maintain the flow of wild śakti between the realms
of humans and the wild by taking care of the land and the deities’ shrines.
As seen in this chapter, when the village, land, and nature are in danger of
destruction and the existing relationship between people and their umwelt
is unsettled, it is necessary for the people to reorganise their social relations
in the realm of jōga, thus preserving their relationship with the deities and
the realm of the wild. Otherwise, as we will see in the next chapter, people
who find themselves in a new relationship with deities in novel situations
must instead inevitably transform themselves into appropriate bearers of the
adikāra given by the deities.

Notes
1 MSEZL is a combination of both central and state government institutions
and a private financial company. It currently consists of Oil and Natural Gas
­Corporation Ltd (ONGCL), the Karnataka Industrial Areas Development
Board ­(KIADB), Infrastructure Leasing and Financial Services (IL&FS), and
the ­Kanara Chamber of Commerce and Industry (KCCI). The New Mangalore
Port Trust (NMPT) is also an equity partner of MSEZL (Dhakal 2009, p. 3).
2 The information below is based on interviews with Nitin Hegde and his relatives
on 7 September 2012 and 16 August 2015 at his house in Tenka Yekkar, as well
as an interview with Ragu and other members of the Krishi Bhumi Sanrakshan
Samiti on 17 March 2015 at the Yekkar village panchayat office.
3 The BSP, formed in 1984, is mainly supported by the Scheduled Castes, Sched-
uled Tribes, Other Backward Classes, and other religious minorities. The SP,
formed in 1992, is mainly supported by Other Backward Classes. The CPI was
formed in 1925, but split into the Communist Party of India-Marxist and the
current CPI in 1964.
 Būtas in the development project 235
4 The BJP is the most significant Hindu nationalist political party and was formed
in 1980. Its power base is Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), the Indian right-
wing Hindu nationalist volunteer organisation. Along with the BJP and Vishwa
Hindu Parishad (VHP), the RSS forms the Sangh Parivar, the family of Hindu
nationalist organisations.
5 If a family evacuate their land, one of the family members can be employed by
MSEZL, in addition to the fixed amount of compensation and a residential site
which is of the size from 7 to 23.5 cents. In the early 1990s, when the MRPL first
started land acquisition in this area, the amount of compensation was 50,000
rupees per acre. As of 2013, the amount has been raised to one and a half million
rupees per acre. Most small farmers, however, are facing difficulty after land
transference which means the loss of their permanent livelihood.
6 The information in this section, including the narratives of Kishore and
­Lakshman Chowta, is based on interviews with them conducted on 1 and 3
­September 2012 and 7 March 2013 at their house in Bajpe.
7 This land acquisition was executed based on the Land Acquisition Act, 1894,
which had been effective until a new law called the Right to Fair Compensation
and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act,
2013, was enforced in January 2014.
8 Mantradēvate is also believed to fly into one’s house through sorcery or to be
brought in along with particular objects such as prasāda or accessories.
9 These cases were collected from July to August 2008 in Mudu Perar. The ages of
informants in these cases are as of 2008.
10 The information is based on the interview with B. Shetty conducted on 1 September
2012.
11 The description below is based on fieldwork and interviews conducted on
9 ­September 2012 and 14 March 2014 at Kuḍubi Padavụ.
12 In the Karnataka Assembly election in 2008, the BJP held the state g­ overnment.
B. S. Yeddyurappa held the position of chief minister of the state of ­Karnataka
until he resigned at the end of July 2011. As we will see below, the antidevelopment
movement led by Swamiji developed dramatically when the BJP held power; the
land acquisition plan for the second phase of the MSEZ was withdrawn just be-
fore Yeddyurappa’s resignation. As political background for the success of this
antidevelopment movement, it has been pointed out that ­Yeddyurappa had close
links with the religious leaders of several mutts in ­Karnataka (see Gowda 2011).
13 Punarụ pratiṣṭhɛ is a ritual conducted for the opening of a reconstructed shrine;
brahmakalaśa is a ritual for when a deity’s statue is enshrined in a shrine.
14 The information below is based on interviews with Giriya Gowda, R. Rao,
Vidya Dinker, and two other villagers in Permude conducted on 14 March 2014.
13 The new umwelt in the
industrial plant

As seen in the previous chapter, the development project that developed

rapidly in the 2000s has greatly affected the lives of villagers in the B ­ ajpe
area. With its close connection to land and nature, būta worship has also
entered a new phase. The deities’ oracles have had ambivalent effects,
strongly supporting the antidevelopment movements by ordering a ‘desper-
ate defence of land and shrines’ and, at the same time, binding people to
their land. It has also become clear that villagers’ endeavours to maintain
their intimate relationships with the land, nature, and deities have partly
transformed the existing power relations in the village community.
The power of the deities, although it would seem to contradict the devel-
opment project, actually has great significance for the people promoting the
project; as we will examine below, būta worship is flourishing anew among
the people working in the MSEZ. As already seen, the MSEZL destroyed
forests and farmlands in the expropriated areas and constructed industrial
plants on the bare land. The company executives often stress that they have
carefully separated the industrial plants from the natural environment and
that they strictly control the borders. In reality, however, the industrial plants
are inseparably entangled with the nature outside the complex.1 Therefore,
in the same way that the industrial plants affect their surroundings through,
for instance, the effluence of waste, these plants are also affected by the land
and nature comprising their environment.
Regarding this, I will investigate in this chapter the encounters between
humans and deities in the industrial zone, and also the effects of būta śakti,
which fills the realm of the wild and flows into the realm of humans, on the
activities of the people in the MSEZ. I will first examine the background of
a grand ritual organised by the company managers after a tragic accident
occurred in the MSEZ. Next, I will describe the attempt of a company ex-
ecutive to recover the ties between humans and the land, nature, and deities
in the industrial zone. I will then investigate how unexpected events in an
industrial unit are often interpreted as the manifestation of a būta’s agency,
and also how the būta ritual works to negotiate between the contradictory
forces of technology and deities. Finally, I will show the endeavours of the
company executives to create a transactional network between the deities
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 237
and industrial workers through ritual practices, and to learn to behave ap-
propriately as devotees of the deities. Through these investigations, I will
consider how the newly formed transactions between the deities and the
people in the MSEZ constitute the emergence of a new umwelt.

An explosion on the path of a būta

On 26 May 2011, an explosion rocked an Indian Strategic Petroleum Reserves
Limited (ISPRL) plant within the MSEZ. According to news sources, a 1.5
million metric ton underground crude oil storage facility was being con-
structed using the drill-and-blast method. Construction work was being un-
dertaken by SKEC-KCT, a Korean-Indian joint venture (Shenoy 2011). The
Mangalore police commissioner, S. K. Singh, reported, ‘The blast occurred
at the tunnelling area of the site where big machines were being operated. A
part of the machinery that supplies power to the tunnelling equipment might
have blasted, resulting in the mishap’ (Daily News & Analysis 2011). Three
people, including one Korean engineer, died. The engineer was an employee
of the Korean company SK, which had received a contract from ISPRL.
The accident attracted attention both because of its tragic consequences
and because it induced the management to take spiritual measures. According
to Vādirāja Bhat, a Brahman astrologer, several ISPRL officers visited him
just after the accident. As per their request, he conducted an inquiry ritual and
found that originally there was a shrine for Pilicāmuṇḍi at the site. It was also
revealed that the explosion inside the plant was caused by the ire of the būta at
the destruction of the shrine in the course of the construction work.
Following this revelation, the managers of SK and ISPRL organised a
large-scale ritual for saving lives (mṛtyuñjayahōmo) inside the plant, in which
Indian employees as well as Korean managers and engineers participated.
They dedicated offerings to the deity and received prasāda from the Brah-
man priests. Afterwards, they decided to build a new shrine for Pilicāmuṇḍi
inside the plant and to worship it incessantly.2 In explaining the cause of the
tragedy, Vādirāja Bhat described the spiritual landscape of the site:

There was originally rājanụ daiva savāri at the site. That was a path, or
route, through which the deity used to pass and roam about. They con-
structed a building on that route … Properly, they should have asked
an astrologer where they should, or should not, construct. Because they
didn’t do that, the accident happened … they [the Korean managers]
realised the importance of the ritual after losing their colleagues’ lives.
(Vādirāja Bhat, 1 February 2013)

It is noteworthy that the site of the original Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine is described as

a ‘path for the deity’. This means that it was not just a solitary religious struc-
ture for the local people’s worship, but also a route through which būta śakti
flowed, connecting human territories to those of the divinities. The accident
238 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
thus occurred at an intersection, the exact point where the tunnel, through
which industrial substances flow, connected to the flow of śakti. Bhat’s nar-
rative thus pointed to the overlap of the pathways for different forces and
substances. Underground, the original Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine and the newly built
industrial infrastructure became linked to one another, with catastrophic
consequences (see also Ishii 2017). The ritual conducted by Bhat was a means
of negotiating these contradictory forces to avoid more unanticipated events.
As shown in this case, for most people working in the industrial zone,
unanticipated accidents are often interpreted as the manifestation of the de-
ities’ agency. Facing a tragic accident or problem in industry, they strive to
solve the problem not only by technical measures but also by spiritual means
such as astrology and ritual. Through their efforts to uncover and respond
to the deities’ agency behind the matter, they consequently create new ritual
practices. I will investigate below the practices of company executives who
increase the fear of, and concern for, the deities inside the industrial plants.

Recovering intimacy with the land and deities in the MSEZ

I will first consider the daily practice of caring for būtas inside the MSEZ
in the chemical company called CS, which was established in Mangalore in
2013. CS is a multinational company based in the USA, Belgium, China, and
India. Its main product is synthetic resin. The factory’s surroundings are
newly developed, and several families protesting against their displacement
still remain in a corner of the industrial zone. The factory is right next to
the estate of the Nellidādi guttu; in fact, because of the construction of this
factory, the Nellidādi guttu’s farmland was destroyed.
A wall surrounds the CS premises and guards check all visitors at the
main gate. Entering the office requires an electronic key. In vivid contrast
to the modern appearance of the office, green paddies wave in the wind in a
small nearby field. According to D. Kadri, manager of human resources and
administration at CS, planting a paddy in the factory compound is part of
an attempt to unite industry and agriculture. He had worked as a politician
in the Congress Party, serving as the mayor of Mangaluru city in 2003, and
he had acquired this position in the MSEZ after retiring from politics. Ac-
cording to him, he and other engineers often visit the nearby Jumādi shrine.

Daivas are like elders for us. A child goes to his parents; similarly, we
visit daiva’s shrine. We pray to daiva only for good things, and thus good
things happen to us. Nearby, there is the Nellidādi Jumādi shrine … We
pray to her [Jumādi] daily for the safety of the industry. If an accident
is about to happen, it is always suddenly avoided. So, we realized that
even though there had been the chance of a calamity, it didn’t happen …
We treat Jumādi as our mother. Whenever we visit her shrine and pray,
a sense of responsibility—what we should and should not do—arises in
us. We feel ourselves being saved by her.
(D. Kadri, 10 March 2014)
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 239
He also explained the ritual called kesarụkallụ pāḍuni (a ceremony of laying
a foundation stone) conducted by the company when they built the factory
and office.

We conducted a great ritual. We dug the soil, laid two stones, and placed
precious stones between them. We placed five metals (pañcalōha) and
nine precious gems (navaratna), and then a Brahman priest poured milk
on them and conducted pūjā … in the ritual, we prayed to nature (prakṛti)
this way: ‘We are going to move your stones and disturb you, so we offer
these precious gems and milk to you.’ Also, we prayed to all creatures
there: ‘Please leave this place. Now we are going to acquire the land tem-
porarily to construct buildings.’ By doing this, we apologized to nature …
when we finished the construction, we again conducted a grand ritual.
(10 March 2014)

Finally, he expressed his view about the relocation of būta shrines following
the construction of the industrial plants, and about the fear of the deities’
curses spreading among workers in the industrial zone.

Several rituals are needed to relocate a daiva shrine, and you should not
forcefully remove it. Only after consulting with daiva through astrology
and getting her agreement, can you take her to a new place. In such
a case, there is no worry of a curse. If, however, we force to progress
something compulsorily, it [the curse] can occur. Indeed, so many peo-
ple have such experiences … If you imagine how a problem happens,
you know, the MSEZ is a very big project. People from various places
come to this limited space, and we are trying to create a new world.
There are various ways of thinking, and also various ways of rituals.
Some people do not mind local matters … I myself, however, strongly
believe in daivas and their great power.
(10 March 2014)

These narratives vividly exemplify a widely shared mixture of fear and af-
fection, and of devotion to both deities and nature. Indeed, most executives
like D. Kadri, who strongly support and promote developmental projects,
also fear the būtas dwelling in the site and long for their blessings. By mak-
ing offerings, conducting rituals to the land, and asking for permission, they
try to gain temporary rights and responsibilities (adikāra) for the land and
nature. Here, the role of the executives corresponds to that of the gaḍipat-
inārụ, the village representative and primary caretaker of the būtas and ag-
ricultural lands. Regarding this, D. Kadri’s efforts to plant paddy and other
agricultural plants within the factory compound can be understood as an
attempt to recover, even partially, the intimate relationship with land and
nature in the inorganic industrial zone.
It is not easy, however, for the people working in the MSEZ to gain pro-
tection and blessings from the deities; rather, they often become the victims
240 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
of deities’ curses. I will next examine the case of how a mishap and unan-
ticipated event in the industrial zone brought about awareness and fear of a
būta’s agency and resulted in the emergence of new ritual practices.

The threatening industrial plant

P. Naik, an MRPL executive officer, lives with his family in a residential
zone called the ‘colony’ inside the MRPL precinct. The colony is a quiet and
green residential area for white-collar employees, and it contains modern
facilities such as a shopping complex, swimming pool, recreation club, pub-
lic school, hospital, and bank branch. In Naik’s neighbourhood, beautiful
two-storey houses line both sides of well-maintained road. Though Naik
seems to enjoy a comfortable life as one of the executives of a big company,
in his interview with me, he expressed irritation over the corruption within
the company and the stresses of daily life in the closed community.3 In ad-
dition, unlike D. Kadri, who emphasised the harmonious co-existence of
industry and traditional būta worship, Naik narrated his experience of the
būtas’ curse in the industrial zone. According to him, numerous cobras,
which are believed to embody Nāga, had been killed during the construc-
tion process of the MRPL, and this has cast a dark shadow over the lives of
the people in the industrial zone.

Nāga is believed to be supreme in this area. During the construction of

the industry, however, many cobras were killed … There are suicides in
the colony every year, due to the curse of Nāga. People within manage-
ment also have had various problems such as trouble over money and
disputes … When I and other managers consulted an astrologer to solve
these problems, he advised us to conduct a ritual for Nāga (nāgamaṅḍala).
In the ritual, the person taken by Nāga [the medium possessed by the
deity] told us: ‘This ritual was received [by the deity]. For you, however,
there is no permanent solution. You have to pray to Nāga forever’.
(P. Naik, 4 March 2012)

As shown in this narrative, the people living in the industrial community

often suspect a būta’s curse behind the troubles and misfortunes around
them, and they attempt to solve the problem through ritual practices. The
problem, however, cannot be solved completely by a single ritual, and thus
they have to start worshipping the deity continuously. They become aware
of the būta’s agency through a difficulty in their daily life, start communi-
cating with the deity through ritual practice, and come to worship the deity
at the būta shrine. Through this process, the people involved in the industry
become involved in a relationship with the deities, and they performatively
create a transactional network. Those who take part in this process are not
only workers from South Kanara, but also foreign engineers and company
managers. Based on Naik’s narrative, I will next investigate the involvement
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 241
of foreign engineers in the ritual that developed after one accident inside the
MRPL precinct.

The malfunction of a machine and a ritual

organised by Japanese engineers
In the late 1990s, during the construction of the MRPL plants, numerous,
but not all, religious structures were demolished. One of the structures that
remain is a būta shrine called the Raktēśvari sāna (shrine). It is said that
when the company was about to demolish this shrine, they received an ora-
cle from an astrologer saying that they should not demolish it. As a result, it
was saved and is now a site of worship for workers inside the plant.
According to P. Naik, a compressor broke down in 1999 at a site near the
Raktēśvari shrine. Japanese engineers, who were posted at the MRPL site
for technology transfer, checked the machine, which had been manufactured
in Japan. Try as they might, they could not find the cause of the malfunction.
They checked the machine and soil again and again, but were unable to solve
the problem. Finally, they agreed to consult an astrologer. Following the
oracle’s prescription, the engineers performed a ritual at Katir temple near
Mangaluru city. They offered a sacred toḷasi tree (Ocimum sanctum) to the
Raktēśvari shrine and then constructed a place of worship at the site also.
After the ritual, the machine worked again. Since then, the MRPL employ-
ees offer prayers at the shrine every morning before they start working.
Similar to the aforementioned Korean managers working in the MSEZ,
the Japanese engineers were involved in a transaction with the deities, which
was regarded as a part of the solution for the malfunctioning machine. Con-
sequently, the Japanese engineers played a significant role as the organisers
of the ritual. At first glance, it seems strange that not only the Indian em-
ployees but also foreign engineers participated in ritual transaction with the
local deities. In practice, however, it was not necessarily a matter of whether
these foreigners shared a belief in the būtas with the locals. Rather, their par-
ticipation in the collaborative ritual practices such as offering prayers and
receiving blessings from deities was regarded as most important. Through
their participation in the ritual, people of various origins performatively
affirm būta śakti and position themselves as recipients of the būta’s agency.4
As we will see later in more detail, through repetitive ritual practices, one
can transform oneself into a person who is part of the transactional network
in which both humans and deities act towards each other. Before consider-
ing this issue, however, I will next examine another case of the problematic
connection of būta śakti and modern technology.

The connection of a pipeline with a banyan tree

In 1999, an incident occurred when the MRPL workers and engineers, in-
cluding P. Naik, were constructing a crude oil pipeline. When they began
242 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
construction at the ‘lower plateau’ site, where the Raktēśvari shrine is lo-
cated, they found a large banyan tree along the planned route.

There were the shrine and a banyan tree at the site. The workers said
that the banyan tree that stood in the pipeline’s route had caused strange
things around the lower plateau … The excavator we used for levelling
hit one spot of the tree, and the machine malfunctioned. Also, when a
contractor was operating the tipcart, its tires started puncturing, tup—
tup—tup. Then, a Muslim fellow came and said, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
At the moment he started the machine, it completely broke down. We
loaded it onto a truck and took it away … Finally, we changed the pipe-
line alignment. While the old alignment remains, nobody touches it.
(P. Naik, 4 March 2012)

In Naik’s description, a banyan tree, generally worshipped and feared as a

sacred plant, is a focal point of the encounter or interference between būta
śakti and the new industrial infrastructure. To avoid the dangerous effects
of būta śakti and keep the pipeline safe, people tried to cope with the way in
which the roots of the banyan tree interfered with the route of the pipeline.
Yet they could not technically control the flow of śakti through the tree into
the construction site, not least because it was invisible and unmeasurable.
Accordingly, they were obliged to instead modify the alignment of the new
infrastructure.
This is similar to what we saw in relation to the fatal accident in the
MSEZ. Similar to the banyan tree, the original Pilicāmuṇḍi shrine and
the newly built industrial infrastructure connected disparate underground
flows. Thus, the new shrine was built as a device through which people could
contact būtas and nature in order to deal with the dangerous flux. Engaged
in this process, both Indians and Koreans became bearers of adikāra, care-
takers of both the industrial machinery and the shrine at once. Each exec-
utive was obliged to take the role of the gaḍipatinārụ, who is responsible
for the relations among artefacts, nature, and deities. P. Naik describes the
hidden linkage of śakti and technology, and a possible solution within the
industry, in the following way:

The force of the deity (daivaśakti) definitely connects to modern tech-

nology somewhere … You should believe in these ancient deities while
working in modern industry. If you don’t believe, you cannot succeed.
Rather, you will face more problems for which you need more expla-
nations. In the modern style of management, if anything goes wrong,
you make a committee to find out [what happened] and prevent [the
problem]. The next time you will confront another problem. Again pre-
vention, again a problem, and the cycle continues … But then if you find
a connection, it will go smoother.
(4 March 2012)
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 243
As examined above, when encountering critical events in the industry, com-
pany managers and other workers often suspect a būta’s agency as the ulti-
mate cause. Following oracles, they not only organise a ritual to appease
the deity but also construct a shrine for permanent worship. Through the
repetition of the reciprocal process of presenting offerings and receiving
blessings, they create, and are also involved in, a transactional network with
the deities, which has long been maintained by villagers in this area (see
also Ishii 2015b). Based on the exploration above, I will next elaborate the
relation between būta worship and people’s practices in industry.

Undertaking adikāra in industry

As already seen, the MSEZ is an enclave with a free-market orientation
governed by legal and tax environments that transcend regular national
laws. By inviting multinational companies, building infrastructure, and
constructing a modern residential area, the MSEZ forms a unique commu-
nity totally different from the surrounding villages. At the same time, būta
worship still maintains great significance inside the industrial zone. For in-
stance, the deity Jumādi worshipped in Bajpe interfered in the negotiation
between the Nellidādi guttu and company officers, and due to the deity’s su-
perior agency, the opposing relation between the villagers and the company
officers was subsumed under the relation between the supreme deity and the
humans affected by her. Similarly, accidents and troubles that occurred in
industry were recognised as risks that should be technically avoided, but at
the same time, they were regarded as the manifestation of a būta’s agency
and as a spiritual threat beyond human abilities.
Here, people’s fear and sense of human passivity when encountering būta
śakti does not necessarily contradict their attitude of taking technical meas-
ures against problems in the industry. In the technical aspect, they are still
actors who make decisions and tackle problems in a responsible way. At
the same time, as shown in P. Naik’s narrative, it is often imagined that the
unknowable śakti in the realm of māya is behind each problem and that it
creates linkages between technical and spiritual elements.
In these situations, people come to position themselves as recipients of the
būta’s agency, and they learn how to respond to, and act towards, the deities.
Such a reciprocal relationship between humans and deities has been the core
of the transactional network in village society; in a person’s relationship
with a deity, one is a recipient of the deity’s agency, but one is also an actor
who affects his/her nonhuman partner. In the ritual process, by enticing the
deity to the edge of their experiential umwelt, and acting as the recipients of
būta śakti, people not only relate with the deity who temporarily manifests
itself, but also act towards the realm of māya beyond the edge. Through this,
they transform themselves into devotees of the deities.
As seen in this chapter, through the repetition of ritual practices, the
company managers interacting with the deities create a transactional
244 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
network inside the industry, and they learn to behave appropriately as pa-
trons of būta worship. Here, it is worth considering why it is not the ordi-
nary workers but the managers who undertake this primary role. This is a
question of where adikāra is in the relationship between humans, deities,
and land and nature. As shown in the cases examined above, the company
managers do not organise those grand rituals just to placate the local work-
ers who worship būtas.5 Rather, the būta rituals should be conducted not
by ordinary workers but by executives, because the latter are the represent-
atives of the industry. As those who are responsible for the lives and safety
of the workers in the industry, the executives pray to, and interact with, the
deities who are the ultimate ‘owners of the land’ to which the executives
are newly related. Moreover, in the rituals, the executives leave to the dei-
ties the judgement of whether they are suitable for undertaking adikāra as
caretakers. At the same time, they substantialise their privileged position
as representatives, just as the guttu people authorise their status through
their relations with būtas. In other words, to be an executive is to undertake
the role of the prime caretaker, as well as to accept the risk of becoming the
object of the būta’s curse.
As seen in Chapter 7, through mutual interaction in the village būta
shrine, the head of the guttu and the incarnate deity embody the ideal be-
haviours of a person in relation to būtas and as a deity in relation to humans,
respectively. Meanwhile, it is uncommon for the incarnate deity to appear
in the new ritual in the industry; rather, a priest conducting the ritual
­mediates the relation between the people and the invisible deities. Moreo-
ver, neither oral epics (pāḍdana) nor customary law (kaṭṭụ) authorises the
būta worship in the industry. The būta worship in the industrial zone is
thus fundamentally different from traditional būta worship; yet still, by
­i mitating the behaviour of the gaḍipatinārụ—the traditional ­patron and
caretaker—each executive strives to undertake the perspective of the per-
son in relation to the deities.
Meanwhile, through their involvement in the transaction with deities, a
sense of unity arises, even if only temporarily, among the participants in the
ritual. Namely, the būta worship in the industry performatively creates a
ritual community, by forming a transactional network which links various
people such as priests, company managers, foreign engineers, and other em-
ployees with their nonhuman counterparts.
Through the reiteration of ritual practices, company executives come
to behave as the bearers of adikāra for būtas, and other participants learn
how to behave as members of the ritual community, or devotees of būtas.
Linking various actors inside and beyond the industrial zone, and entail-
ing the transformation of people’s behaviour, the transactional network is
performatively formed and activated in the MSEZ. As I will consider in the
next section, this is understood as the emergence of a new umwelt interre-
lated with the realm of the wild, even inside the industrial zone, which seems
to infinitely expand in connection with the outer world.
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 245
Towards the new umwelt
In South Kanara, būtas, which are tied to particular lands while travelling
across regions, are regarded as wild śakti itself. Through the transaction of
offerings and blessings, būta worship has mediated the relationship between
people and nature/deities, and has made visible the flow of śakti between the
realm of humans and the realm of the wild. Considering the situation in the
MSEZ, such as the eviction of villagers, the demolition of shrines and farm-
lands, and the collapse of village communities, this transactional network
linking people to the realm of the wild has been cut in the expropriated land.
As seen in Chapter 12, however, even in critical situations, people’s en-
deavours to maintain their ties with the land, nature, and deities have led to
the reorganisation of the transactional network in various ways. In Kuḍubi
Padavụ, for instance, the movement led by villagers longing for the protec-
tion of the land and būta worship has brought about change in the power
relations in the village community, and has created a new būta worship in-
dependent from the authority of the top guttu.
Meanwhile, as I examined in this chapter, the practices of the people who
were newly related to the Bajpe area through their involvement in the devel-
opment project also engendered change. Since most of the people involved
in the industry are strangers in this area, theirs is not a project of attempting
to regain an erstwhile intimate relationship with the land, nature, and dei-
ties that support their lives. Rather, they have striven to negotiate the force
of technology that emerges from their activities in the industry and the wild
śakti that lies under the expropriated land and often manifests itself through
unanticipated events. For the people in the MSEZ, the extensive zone that
consists of the industrial plants and the manmade colony is their experien-
tial umwelt, and tragic accidents and troubles within it are perceived as the
unsettling of their relation with this umwelt. Such fluctuation brings crises
into their daily lives, and at the same time, it suggests new encounters with
an unknown other.
The people in the industry perceive the deity’s agency through unantici-
pated events, and they gradually learn how to interact with the extraordi-
nary other in order to adjust their unsettled relation with the world. Through
participating in rituals and acting as devotees, they create a reciprocal rela-
tionship with the deities inside the industry. For them, this process contains
the transformation of their umwelt, as well as the transformation of their
ways of being.
Through astrology and ritual practices following on tragic accidents, the ma-
jor components of the industrial plants, such as machines, facilities, and infra-
structure, are recognised as things linked to the surrounding land and nature,
or the unknown realm of the wild. At the same time, the things marginalised
in the industry, such as būta shrines and sacred flora, come to the surface, and
thus the umwelt for the people takes on a new aspect. While the umwelt for the
people is gradually transformed by their ritual practice, the new transactional
246 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
network which links things, humans, land, and deities creates a ritual space
that performatively marks off a boundary inside the industrial zone.
It helps to imagine this situation from two shifting aerial views: if we see
the MSEZ as a whole as the ground, it looks as though the ritual spaces are
the heterogeneous figures that appear here and there on this ground covered
by artefacts. On the contrary, if we see the surrounding land and nature as
the ground, the MSEZ becomes the figure, a gigantic but fragile construc-
tion, while from the depths, numerous channels connecting the surface and
the realm of the wild spread like a network, wild śakti flowing through these
channels and overflowing from multiple ritual spaces.
Here, the new development of the būta worship in the industrial zone cannot
be understood just as the capturing and taming of a traditional ritual by the
modern system. The people organising the būta ritual inside the industry do not
merely aim to placate the ordinary workers and facilitate their management by
using rituals. Rather, they long to acquire the practical skills to deal with the
wild śakti that is under the surface and occasionally overflows into the indus-
trial zone. For them, conducting the būta ritual is to learn the possible ways
of handling or responding to divine nature, while being keenly aware of the
fragility and danger of their artificial space connected to the realm of the wild.6
In these situations, by superimposing their role in the industry upon that
of the gaḍipatinārụ in a village community, the company executives attempt
to become the appropriate persons for encountering the deities. Similar
to the gaḍipatinārụ, who cares for the village shrine and conducts būta rit-
uals to maintain the proper relationship with the deities, the company ex-
ecutives prepare a suitable environment for interacting with the deities, and
they take responsibility for its continual care and management. Moreover,
by responding to the būtas’ agency manifested in rituals, they learn how to
act as the partners of deities. In other words, each executive learns a way of
being as a person who is not only active but also passive in the realm of jōga,
as it is connected to the unknown realm of māya.
As seen above, while being in a position that endangers the village com-
munities and būta worship through their promotion of the development
project, the people living in the industrial zone—especially the company
executives—endeavour to create a new relationship with their surroundings
through interaction with deities. In this sense, similar to the villagers who
struggle betwixt and between modern law and būta śakti, the inhabitants in
the industrial community also live pathisch lives, being both autonomous
and heteronomous, in the midst of the entanglements of modern technology
and wild śakti emerging in the MSEZ.

Notes
1 Regarding the connection of modern technologies with nature, see de Laet and
Mol (2000), Carse (2012), Parry (2015), and Ishii (2017).
2 Interview with Vādirāja Bhat on 1 February 2013.
 The new umwelt in the industrial plant 247
3 The interview with P. Naik was conducted on 4 March 2012.
4 For more on the relation between ritual and performativity, see Ishii (2012).
5 Previous studies on rituals or exorcism in modern factories have often inter-
preted these rituals as a strategy by the management to placate ordinary workers
(e.g. Ong 1988). Regarding this issue, see also Ishii (2017).
6 Regarding this, see Kimura (2016), who describes the conflicts and negotiations
between locals in the Tohoku region of Japan, who recognise the danger of
earthquakes and tsunamis and still long for an intimate relationship with sea,
and the state, which aims to build a gigantic seawall.
14 Conclusion
Being, pathos, and the umwelt

In this book, I have investigated the lives of people in relation to būta wor-
ship, both through their daily social relations with each other and through
their relationships with the realm of the wild, which is actualised through
their interactions with deities. Throughout this investigation, I have sought
to answer this book’s central question: how can a person create and recreate
one’s umwelt and one’s form of life within it through one’s encounters and
interactions with others, including with nonhuman beings? This question
entails several key ideas that are foundational to my argument: the contin-
gency and limitedness of every being, the inconceivability of a person’s life
and life-world, and the phase of life itself in the depths of an individual life.
Before considering these issues, I will first review the theoretical perspective
presented in this book.

On magical-religious practices, modernity, and beings

As seen in Chapter 1, magical-religious practice in non-Western societies has
been an important theme in anthropology, and scholars have produced vari-
ous studies on them. Among these studies, those focusing on the relations be-
tween modernity and the occult in non-Western societies have been especially
prevalent since the 1980s (e.g. Taussig 1980; Geschiere 1997; ­Comaroff &
­Comaroff 1999; Masquelier 2002; see Boddy 1994). Most of these studies seem
to share the idea that magical-religious practices in n ­ on-Western societies
are incompatible with modern rational values and logics, and yet/therefore
they function as criticisms of the systems and institutions that originated in
the modern West. From this perspective, magical-religious practices such as
magic, witchcraft, and spirit possession are inseparably linked with modern
phenomena such as the penetration of capitalism, globalisation, and the in-
tensification of neoliberalism. These practices are imagined both as symbolic
protests against this modernity and as imitations of its power. At the same
time, they are also imagined as somehow escaping the control and scrutiny of
modern rational systems and discourses.
Meanwhile, proponents of ontological anthropology present an alternative
perspective on magical-religious practices in non-Western societies (e.g. Viveiros
 Conclusion 249
de Castro 2003, 2011a; Henare, Holbraad & Wastell 2007; Holbraad 2009; Ped-
ersen 2011). These proponents first point out the necessity for ­anthropologists
to take things in the field as they are. They emphasise the importance of peo-
ple’s magical-religious practices and narratives, which they believe indicate the
radical alterity of others’ ontological worlds. At the same time, they criticise
the functionalistic view of previous studies that have analysed these phenom-
ena as merely people’s responses to, or resistance against, modernity. Rather,
their aim is to describe the ontological worlds of the people in the field as they
are, as radically different from the ontological world of the modern West, while
maintaining these worlds as indeterminate and virtual. These ideas are resonant
with the animating ideal of ontological anthropology, namely, the ontological
self-determination of people in the world.
If we compare the theoretical perspectives of ontological anthropology
and the antecedent studies on magical-religious phenomena in non-Western
societies, we find some similarities in their arguments, though each of them
certainly has a different view on these phenomena. For most of the ante-
cedent studies, magical-religious phenomena in non-Western societies are
collectively regarded as a reference point both to make suppositions about
what the ‘modern West’ is and to illuminate its problems and faults through
contrast with these phenomena. Meanwhile, in ontological anthropology,
the ontological world of the people in a non-Western society is imagined
as/through difference from the modern West. Their theoretical frames are
dissimilar to each other in what is regarded as the basis of differentiation,
whether the basis is the modern West or non-Western societies. At the same
time, they are alike in that both of them link the binary of the West and
the rest through their difference with each other. In addition, both of them
regard the magical-religious practices in non-Western societies as incompat-
ible with modern rationality and therefore ungraspable by modern rational
thought, discourses, or systems.
The proponents of ontological anthropology, however, distinguish them-
selves from their antecedents by criticising the previous scholars’ reduction-
istic analyses of magical-religious practices in non-Western societies. They
refuse to interpret these phenomena only in relation to modernity, attempt-
ing instead to describe their radical alterity as it is. Taken with the accu-
mulation and circulation of studies that take a similar theoretical stance
to ontological anthropology, various effects and problems seem to have
emerged. Regarding this issue, I will not repeat the critical arguments of
the several anthropologists examined in Chapter 1, but will review instead
just two key questions that I raised before: the question regarding the rela-
tions between modernity and people living in non-Western societies, and the
question regarding the centrality of being/existence.
Let us consider the first question first. Proponents of ontological anthro-
pology have described the lives of people in non-Western societies as being
in unique ontological worlds, which are radically different from the West-
ern ontological world based on modern rationality. In doing so, they have
250 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
tended to regard magical-religious practices and narratives as indications of
these societies’ radical alterity. They thereby seem to preclude concrete in-
vestigation of the roles and meanings that systems and orders characteristic
of the modern West might have in someone’s life in a non-Western society,
and how these systems and orders relate to his/her everyday activities, in-
cluding magical-religious practices.
However, what most anthropologists encounter in the field today is not
an ontological world that is fundamentally different from that of the mod-
ern West, but a situation in which multiple values, orders, and ways of
­being—with different origins, histories, and trajectories—are intertwined
and affect one another, and constitute the essential part of people’s lives.
As seen in this book, throughout historical transitions such as colonisation
and decolonisation, enactments of modern law, and shifts in policy, people
in South Kanara have lived in, made use of, and even produced systems,
modes of life, and social relations that exemplify values and logics with
some affinity to modern rationality. At the same time, they have still lived
in, used, and continuously created and recreated systems, modes of life, and
social relations, such as būta worship and the kuṭuma, that embody values
and logics dissimilar to those of the modern West.
These multiple systems and forces also encounter each other, contending
and intertwining with one another in certain spaces and phenomena, such
as būta shrines, law courts, matrilineal families, agricultural fields, and
­industrial plants. In the midst of these entanglements, people have strived to
find their particular ways of life by using or following each system and force,
and also by coordinating their relationships with various others. Hence,
their ways of being are limited by multiple systems and orders with diverse
values, logics, histories, and directions. At the same time, possibilities open
in unexpected directions through their complex relationships with others.
This awareness that people’s lives are always limited and contingent raises
the second question regarding the centrality of being/existence.
As mentioned above, proponents of ontological anthropology have in-
sisted that we should maintain the ontological worlds of the people in the
field as indeterminate and virtual, yet still consider them as real. These
proponents also propose, as key ideals of anthropology, the ontological
­self-determination of the people in the field and the radical essentialism of
taking things (or things as concepts) in the field as they are. In these prop-
ositions and the permeation of these ideas in arguments concerning the
ontological turn, an interesting effect seems to have emerged. Namely, it
has become apparent that phenomena in people’s narratives and practices
which seem irrational and imaginary from a modern-rationalistic viewpoint
become substantialised as the objective reality for them, while being virtual
for us in the modern West. Here, magical-religious narratives, and the phe-
nomena expressed therein, are given the position of ontic beings/existence
that indicate as well as exemplify the radical alterity of the ontological world
of the Other.
 Conclusion 251
As būtas and their śakti in South Kanara suggest, however, a magical-­
religious phenomenon is not something that is assumed to exist in the same
way as the presence of an ontic object. Rather, it is a mode of being that
is just momentarily actualised in between not yet and no longer (see von
Weizsäcker 1946, p. 11; Kimura 2000, pp. 70–73). As we have seen in this
book, the life-world of the people concerning būta worship has been formed
around social relationships and institutions that form the basis of the ritu-
als, families, and village, but this life-world is also based on concrete inter-
actions with the deities who manifest themselves through spirit possession.
In this sense, the būtas are certainly real beings for them.
This does not, however, mean that the būtas can exist in the same way as
ontic objects. They are intangible forces that fill the unknown realm of māya,
while linking to the realm of jōga, and are transitorily actualised in between
these two realms. It is likely that it is precisely because these forces are so
inscrutable and contingent, their forms so easily fading away (māyaka), that
people created such magnificent rituals and sophisticated systems of wor-
ship to keep communicating with the būta śakti.
What we should consider further is that this inscrutability and contin-
gency is not unique to magical-religious phenomena, but is common to any
being. The forms of both human and nonhuman beings are multiply limited
by various orders and forces, which they cannot foresee or determine for
themselves, but at the same time, they are always open to novel transfor-
mations. Each of these forms shows a contingent mode of being that can be
temporarily actualised in between not yet and no longer. When apprehend
the unknowability and contingency concomitant with every being, and we
try to understand people’s lives in this way, it becomes necessary to consider
a phase different from that of ontic being/existence. I have attempted in
this book to think through how each being can be interrelated with such a
phase, particularly through reference to the Gestaltkreis theory.

Pathos and the umwelt

Responding to von Uexküll’s theoretical description of a mutually deter-
mined relationship between an organism and its umwelt, von Weizsäcker fo-
cused on a more unstable organism–umwelt relationship with his ­Gestaltkreis
theory. This theory illuminates the duplexity and intertwinement of passivity
and activity. It also reveals the limitedness and transformability of the life of
an organism, which is indicated in the process of the life-form of an organism
as a subject becoming endangered by novel events and sublated into another
form. He also presented the important notion of Pathisches, contrasted with
Onthishes as pure life-form that appears from time to time in its relationship
with the umwelt. Pathisches was conceptualised here as the primordial rela-
tionship of an organism with the life itself in its depths.
In contrast to the ontological anthropological perspective that tends
to subsume everything into the realm of being/existence, the ideas of von
252 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Weizsäcker suggest that one can only think of being/existence through its
relationship with virtual life itself, which is never objectified. Through ref-
erence to these ideas, I have investigated in this book how people in rural
South Kanara have created and recreated their forms of life and their rela-
tionships with their umwelt through their encounters and interactions with
various others. Through this investigation, I have attempted to describe the
lives of people under multiple limitations from different orders and forces,
yet still open to the variability in their relationships with the virtual, namely,
the fundamental contingency and unknowability of life, and their pathisch
relationship with the realm of māya.

In between virtual and actual

The relationships between the people in rural South Kanara and the realm
of the wild, relationships which form the basis of their lives, have been cre-
ated and maintained by their relations with the land and nature through
daily activities such as farming, hunting and gathering, and, especially, būta
worship. As examined in Chapter 5, through the manifestation of būtas in
the ritual and the mutual gifting of offerings and blessings between the peo-
ple and the deities, the fertile and dangerous būta śakti can be actualised.
In village society, the ranks and ritual roles of families concerning the
būta ritual are determined by the oral epics and customary law. At the same
time, through direct interactions with the būtas who authorise these ranks
and roles, the mutual rights and duties, or adikāra, of both the villagers
and the deities are renewed. Moreover, through these interactions, it is con-
firmed that the villagers’ rights and statuses are transient and depend on the
approval and protection of the deities. The interactions between the villag-
ers and the būtas in the ritual thus reveal the people’s pathisch relationship
with the realm of the wild, which is filled with būta śakti.
As we have seen in Chapter 6, through the mutual gifting relationship be-
tween the people and the deities, transactional networks involving various
actors are created in time and space beyond that of a single būta ritual. As
observed in the kambuḷa ritual in Perar, the būta śakti performatively marks
geographical and social boundaries by circulating between, while also link-
ing, the realm of the wild and the realm of humans, transferring itself in var-
ious substance-codes such as the būta in the forest, the paddy in the fields,
offerings, and prasāda. By participating in the transactional network as a
dividual person who receives and absorbs the būta śakti and transfers it to
others, one becomes a person in relation to a particular family and farmland
and to the forest and sacred wildness.
In Chapter 7, we investigated people’s interactions with būtas and their
becoming as persons in the exchange of, or playing with, perspectives,
­focusing on the experiences of spirit mediums and the gaḍipatinārụ. The
­spirit-medium, who becomes the deity in the būta ritual, modulates his
body in relation to others in the realm of jōga, and learns the appropriate
 Conclusion 253
behaviour of the deity through multiple mimesis. At the same time, he
receives the būta śakti in his body as a divine grace that can be abruptly
brought from the realm of māya. The skill of the spirit-medium is thus the
art of maintaining his reflexive perspective while transforming himself into
the deity. It is also the art of letting multiple perspectives play inside his
body, blending autonomy and heteronomy, or activity and passivity. Again,
through their interactions with the spirit medium who manifests the būta
śakti while remaining on the border of actuality and virtuality, the gaḍipat-
inārụ and other ritual participants learn the behaviours and perspectives of
persons intimately related with the realm of māya.
As we saw in Part One, būta worship in South Kanara is inseparably in-
terrelated with the customary law and social relations concerning ranks,
ritual roles, matriliny, and land tenure in village society. The continuation
of the būta ritual is based on the maintenance and renovation of these sys-
tems and social relations. At the same time, through their perception of būta
śakti and their pathisch relationship with the realm of māya, people’s social
relations and forms of life in the realm of jōga are formed, modulated, and
transformed. Therefore, one’s life-form and relationship with others in the
realm of jōga, or a person’s experiential umwelt, can emerge and be contin-
uously recreated as that which is inseparable from būta śakti and the realm
of māya, which is beyond the fluid verges of the realm of jōga.
At the same time, the relations among various actors in the realm of jōga
are never stable. The life-forms of people and their umwelts are incessantly
transformed through their encounters with novel events and actors, as we
examined in Part Two.

Modernity, wildness, and būta worship

The introduction of the centralised administration of religious institutions,
the modernisation of customary law, the execution of censuses and land
reforms, and the advance of massive developmental projects represent the
major social and institutional changes that rural societies in South Kanara
have experienced since the colonial period. These changes are, in a sense,
the processes through which the values and logics that comprise modernity
have been realised in the lives of ordinary people.
For instance, policies such as the enforcement of modern law, the exe-
cution of censuses, and the registration of landowners enabled the state to
manage and govern local communities and populations more efficiently. At
the same time, by elucidating the particular ways and conditions regarding
how and when the state and the courts would grant rights, these projects en-
couraged people to actively participate in the modern system of governance.
These social and institutional changes enabled new ideas and norms, such
as legal rights and duties, management and accountability, rationalisation,
and democratisation, to come to the fore in every aspect of people’s daily
lives, as they encountered novel agents such as government officials, judges
254 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
in courts, land tribunals, and so forth. Moreover, recent developmental pro-
jects have led to changes in, and even the dissolution of, existing systems and
relationships in rural societies; they have cut vital linkages between villagers
and the land, and they have occasioned new ways of life that are not directly
related to land and nature, let alone dependent on them. In Part Two, we
investigated multiple aspects of people’s practices and actions under these
comprehensive social changes, focusing on the relationships between peo-
ple, land and nature, and būtas.
As seen in Chapter 8, with the development of the centralised administra-
tion of religious institutions beginning in the nineteenth century, the village
būta shrine in Perar became subject to governance and management by the
state and modern law. In this process, some people involved with the būta
ritual tried to expand their rights and interests by using modern law and
systems. Meanwhile, the higher-ranked guttus, who had previously been in
charge of shrine management based on promises with the būtas, were urged
to legitimise these management rights and duties according to the logic and
framework of modern law and systems. Moreover, some villagers have re-
cently started to demand the democratisation of shrine management based
on modern law. In these circumstances, people have pursued new ways
and roles in relationship with others, following both the orders of the law
courts that embody modern law and logics and the wishes of the būtas, who
regulate people’s relations under the kaṭṭụ and manifest themselves as the
­supreme persons in the ritual.
The disputes between the guttu family and the management ­c ommittee
concerning the village būta shrine in Perar provide a clear illustration both
of the turmoil and conflicts among the villagers, which unfolded ­u nder
multiple restrictions, and of the process of the reorganisation of their
­social relations. As we saw in Chapter 8, in the practices of the people
dealing with multiple forces and logics, the relations between the plaintiffs
and defendants determined by the law court could be transformed into a
relationship among devotees who share the adikāra towards the būtas. It
was also observed that the legal disputes and negotiations among the peo-
ple were often directed by the būtas’ agency. After the significant struggles
and efforts of the villagers who used modern law while also being directed
by the būta śakti, it was finally decided that they would establish a new
organisation for būta worship, one based on the kaṭṭụ, deities’ order, and
modern law.
In South Kanara, both the land and the kuṭuma have been places in/over
which the kaṭṭụ and modern law have interfered with each other, becoming
intertwined and entangled. As we have seen in Chapter 10, the stipulation
and legalisation of matriliny in South Kanara, which developed from the
colonial period to the 1960s, urged the guttus in rural areas to reorganise
their relations with the land and kuṭuma. These changes initiated a process
in which the kuṭuma, which had been a part of the transactional network of
people, land and nature, and deities as a dividual person, was redefined as an
 Conclusion 255
‘indivisible community of property’ and cut off from the transactional net-
work. Moreover, this was a process that led to the dissolution of the kuṭuma
and the dispersion of family land by defining the subject with the right to the
kuṭuma’s property as an individual.
For a guttu family who had managed vast lands based on the kuṭuma, to
cope with these demands from modern law meant to reorganise and redefine
the kuṭuma, which had originally been a complex community related to the
guttu house, land and nature, and deities, as an economic unit constituted
by several sub-groups as the aggregates of individuals. It became inevitable
for the guttu family to use legal means to secure family members’ rights to
the kuṭuma land in order to maintain the resources necessary for the con-
tinuation of the kuṭuma and būta ritual as well, even though it entailed the
risk of the family land being dispersed.
For instance, in his plan proposed around 1950, Muttaya Shetty attempted
to divide and inherit the family land to each kabarụ headed by a female el-
der. This plan was in conformity with the then law, and at the same time, it
enabled the kuṭuma to keep the land in accordance with the customary mat-
riliny. As this case shows, due to social and institutional changes, it became
necessary for the guttu people to use modern law and systems appropriately
in order to retain the kuṭuma land, continue the būta ritual, and maintain
their vital relationship with the realm of the wild.
However, if we look back further in history, we see that the Aliyasan-
tana law was also formed through the encounter of modern law with the
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ practised in South Kanara and by the accumulation
of precedents in the courts. Beginning with the codification of the legend
of Būtara Pandya, the aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ transformed from the prohibi-
tion of kuṭumba property partitioning to the approval of individual rights
to divided property. This was the process by which ordinary people came
to use and obey modern law, and, at the same time, was the process that the
people concerned in the judicature and lawsuits reconstructed the aḷiyas-
antāna kaṭṭụ reflexively by referring to precedents and acquiring knowledge
about concrete cases in the courts.
Meanwhile, as seen in Chapter 11, the enactment of land reforms was an
event that surfaced the inconsistencies and tensions within social relations
based on customary law, particularly through people’s encounters and ne-
gotiations with modern law and systems. It was mainly the tension between
the duties of the kuṭuma to maintain family land and the desire of individ-
uals to establish their own land rights. In order to resolve this tension, peo-
ple tried one way after another to maintain their existing relationships with
family, land, and deities, while also using modern law. When the Karnataka
Land Reforms (Amendment) Act was enacted, some of the guttu members
planned to establish their land rights while trying to prevent tenants from
acquiring rights to parts of their kuṭuma land. By applying for rights to the
‘grandfather’s land’ belonging to a kabarụ, they strived to reconcile their
duty to save the kuṭuma land with their pursuit of individual rights.
256 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Contrary to the expectations of the government, land reform did not just
mean the transition of land rights from landowners to tenants. Rather, it
became a critical event for villagers in which the continuance of the vital
relationships between the people and būtas on particular lands was at stake.
Therefore, some tenants withdrew their applications for land rights for fear
of the būtas’ curse, and others who had newly acquired land rights begged
the būtas for permission and approval for undertaking the adikāra towards
the land and deities.
As seen in Chapters 12 and 13, the advance of massive developmental
projects was another critical event that shook the existing relationships be-
tween the people, land and nature, and deities. At the same time, it was an
event that revealed in various ways how people and the realm of the wild are
interrelated.
In rural societies in South Kanara, the advance of the developmental pro-
jects and land acquisition unsettled existing systems and complex relations,
such as matriliny, land tenure, būta worship, and the ranks and duties of
families. In the critical situation of the dissolution of a village community,
some of the guttus sought new interests and endeavoured to rebuild the
community in a new place, while other guttus and villagers opposed the
land acquisition and strived to maintain their ties with the land and deities.
In any case, people struggled to search for new ways of life and novel rela-
tionships with their umwelt.
In the Kuḍubi plateau in Permude village, for instance, people with var-
ious interests and backgrounds struggled for land rights and rights to the
būta ritual. Through tensions and turmoil between the immigrants and
original inhabitants instigated by the developmental project, villagers even-
tually created a new form of the būta ritual that ordinary villagers, instead
of the powerful guttu family, took charge of the ritual for royal būtas in
the village. This case shows the process of how encounters and interactions
among various actors, including guttus, former tenants, company managers,
politicians, social activists, and religious leaders, created a novel relation-
ship of the people with their umwelt, all the while being partially directed
by the būtas’ agency.
In critical situations such as the intrusion of massive developmental
­projects, būta worship has thus played a vital role for the people in village
societies to maintain and recreate their relationships with the land, nature,
and the realm of the wild. As seen in Chapter 13, this is even true for the
people promoting the developmental project too.
In South Kanara, land has long been the site of encounters and ­struggles
among different orders and forces. Industrial plants, meanwhile, are places
where different forces can come into contact and interfere with each other
more directly, as shown in the case of a space that had originally been
­regarded as a pathway for būtas became a distribution channel for ­manmade
materials and forces. Confronting various critical accidents and problems,
some of the workers in the industrial plant grew aware of the būta śakti in
 Conclusion 257
the depths of the industrial zone, and they decided to conduct rituals as a
measure to mediate between the būta śakti and artificial forces. Through
their endeavours to interact with the surrounding land, nature, and deities
in the ritual, those responsible for the management of the industrial plant
came to learn the appropriate behaviours of devotees or patrons undertak-
ing the adikāra towards the land and būtas. Likewise involved in the transfer
of offerings and blessings in the būta ritual, ordinary employees also took
part in the formation of the transactional network linking the i­ ndustrial
plant, land and nature, and the realm of the wild, and thus learned the
­behaviours of būta devotees.
The investigation in Chapter 13 showed that novel ritual practices, which
seem to imitate village būta rituals, have developed in industrial plants.
However, this does not mean that the special economic zone regulated by
a modern system and technology has subsumed the wild būtas and tamed
their power.
As we have seen, in village society, the pathisch relationship of villagers
with the realm of the wild is confirmed and revitalised through their direct
interactions with būtas in the ritual. Similarly, in industrial plants too, the
frailty contained in manmade structures linked to nature and the realm of
the wild has been brought to the fore, and the practice of the būta ritual
has illuminated the contingency and uncertainty of the workers’ lives there.
The ritual practices of the people in the industrial plants thus suggest their
awareness of the inscrutability of their life-world and the pathisch aspects
of their lives and reveal part of their ventures to form and modulate their
relationship with nature and wild śakti, which could variously affect the
vicissitudes of their lives.

As seen in this book, for people living in rural South Kanara, the būta
ritual, which is inseparably related to social relations, land and nature, and
customary law and systems, has been what mediates as well as embodies the
vital relationship between humans and the realm of the wild. The relation-
ship of people with their umwelt has been formed and continuously trans-
formed both by their daily social relations in the realm of jōga and by their
relationship with the realm of māya, the latter of which can be actualised
through the būta ritual.
At the same time, from the colonial period onwards, rural societies in
South Kanara have experienced various changes and transformations that
can generically be called ‘modernisation’. These processes of transforma-
tion have compelled villagers to reorganise and modify their existing social
relations and modes of life by introducing novel systems and manners that
exemplify different values and logics, and by making all of these function
within concrete social relations. People have experienced these transfor-
mations and novel encounters with others as a crisis that has unsettled the
258 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
existing social relations and modes of being. At the same time, they have
perceived these changes as opportunities, through renegotiations and con-
junctions of customary systems and social relations, for fresh relationships
with others in the realm of jōga, or their everyday life-world.
Under multiple orders and forces that have directed as well as restricted
their acts and practices, people have mediated their relationships with var-
ious others and re-formed their ways of life, and this has often involved
dispute and conflict. Simultaneously, they have strived to maintain and
recreate their vital relationship with the deities and the realm of the wild.
Through their autonomous as well as heteronomous practices which con-
tain the potential for transformation while remaining under multiple lim-
itations, people’s relationship with the realm of the wild has directed their
modes of life. This is the relationship from which the life-form of each being
can emerge, and it is the relationship which enables the continuance of the
Lebenskreis, or circle of life, beyond individuals.

Waiting for deities

The practices of people concerning būta worship contain a seemingly con-
tradictory duality as a fundamental entanglement. In the realm of jōga, in
which various beings are intermingled and multiple orders and forces are
entangled, people’s activities and decision-making in forming their ways of
life always occur within the duality of autonomy and heteronomy, or activ-
ity and passivity. Indeed, the life of a person who pursues a way of being
in the realm of jōga, while deferring to his/her relationship with the realm
of māya for how his/her life will be formed and transformed, exists in the
duality of Ontisches and Pathisches from the very beginning. This suggests
not only that the world around people that is never fully comprehensible
contains both the phase of actuality and the phase of virtuality, but also that
these phases have already been embraced in the life of each person.
In seeing the deity and being seen by her, and in transferring the būta
śakti flowing in the transactional network, one becomes aware that the
vague verges of the realm of jōga is not the end of the world, but one that
leads into the unknown realm of māya. With a sense of such a pathisch
contact with sacred wildness, one may become aware of also embracing the
unknown realm within oneself, which is interrelated to life itself and there-
fore cannot be fully understood.
If the above is the case, then the experience of the būta medium, who
transforms himself into the deity by receiving the būta śakti while keeping
his own perspective, does not just indicate a very special way of encounter-
ing or confronting the self and the other. Rather, it dramatically shows the
very ordinary way of a person’s transformation through his/her entangle-
ment with life itself.
Through this transformation, a person gradually weakens the intensity of
his/her self as subject, and, at the same time, leaves him/herself open to the
 Conclusion 259
forces coming from the realm of the virtual inside as well as ­outside him/­
herself by disclosing the pathisch aspect in his/her body. Still, this transfor-
mation does not proceed in total disorder, but is directed by the e­ xisting form
of one’s self, one’s relationships with intimate others, and the a­ nticipation of
the becoming through transformation. These may well be the elements that
help a person to remain on the verge of the actual and the virtual without
completely losing his/her reflexive self, even in the midst of a transformation
filled with pathos.
The transformation from the ontisch mode to the pathisch mode of life,
just in between the realms of jōga and māya, is not only experienced by a
medium at the moment of spirit possession, but can be sensed in the subtler,
more indeterminate attitudes or postures of ordinary people. For the last
episode in this book, I will introduce one of my own small experiences that
suggest the subtle, quiet transformation of a person.

On 24 February 2016, the last day of the nēma in Perar, I awoke at 1 am

to wait for a car to take me to the ritual for Pilicāmuṇḍi, which would be
starting before dawn. Though it had seemed at first that nobody would
take me to the shrine so early, one of the gaḍipatinārụ’s grandsons had
offered to drive me to the shrine along with his grandfather. At around
2 am, I finally heard the sound of a car come from the end of an agricul-
tural field and stop in front of the house. I walked into the front yard,
which was illuminated by the full moon. The tall and thin figure of the
gaḍipatinārụ, who stayed over at the Muṇḍabettu guttu’s house during
the nēma, appeared from the shadows of the old house to take his seat in
the car. I got in after the gaḍipatinārụ, and his grandson began driving
us to the village būta shrine. There were no other cars on the street and
only the wind resounded in my ears.
After a while, the village būta shrine, decorated with colourful illumi-
nations, appeared out of the dark of the night. The inside of the shrine
precincts were brightly lit, but the surroundings were cast in darkness.
The precincts were deserted when we arrived. The gaḍipatinārụ then sat
on one of the chairs for the guttu heads, which were set in front of an altar
decorated gorgeously with flowers and illuminations. I sat on a stone step
on the corner, put on a cardigan to ward off the chill of the night air of
the dry season, and looked around the precinct. I saw the gaḍipatinārụ,
in only a loincloth with a white cloth over his bare shoulders, sitting still.
During the nēma, the gaḍipatinārụ is expected to stay at the shrine
the entire time and to wait for the start of a ritual for several hours,
thus preventing him from getting enough food and sleep. Once a ritual
starts, he should then accompany the deities, respond to their every
word and action, evoke and appease the powers of possession, and listen
to oracles lasting for hours.
With this in mind, I marvelled at the fact that the gaḍipatinārụ is
already over 80.
260 Social transformations, emergence of new umwelt
Looking at the back of his head, which was covered with the white
cloth, I noted how his back remained straight and he did not stir an
inch. I, meanwhile, repeatedly dozed off and awoke as I waited. Time
was passing slowly.
Eventually, another human figure appeared in the precinct. I saw
Jayānanda sit cross-legged in a corner and start preparing himself
to become Pilicāmuṇḍi in the upcoming ritual. He offered a brief
prayer at the altar, lit a small light, and made up his face using a small
­hand-mirror. After a while, one of the ritual workers walked up to the
altar to add oil to the votive light and exchanged a couple words with
the gaḍipatinārụ. The sky was still dark, the precinct was still silent,
and each person there was silently pursuing his duties while awaiting
what was approaching.
What were they waiting for?
The start of the ritual. The coming of the deities.

The encounter of humans and deities, the verges of the umwelt, and the
boundary between the realms of jōga and māya—when I think about the
between of the actual and the virtual, which I have named in various ways
in this book, I always recall not only the manifestation of deities from the
realm of māya in the realm of jōga, but also the ways in which people quietly
transfer themselves from the realm of jōga to its verges.
Inside the precinct that night, the gaḍipatinārụ was sitting still in front of
the altar. Jayānanda was peering at his mirror, concentrating on making up
his face to become a deity. They were present in the same time and space,
not exchanging a word, suspending all the disputes and troubles in their
daily lives. Both of them were just waiting for the coming of the deity. It was
not yet coming, but they anticipated it would be soon, and they knew that
the deity would need their help to manifest itself.
In this way, encounters of humans and deities occur not only as deities’
visits from the realm of māya, but also as people’s approaches to the verges
of the realm of jōga. The between of the actual and the virtual gradually
appears from within, or soaks through, their serene works of preparation
and attitudes of waiting. It is like a slight scent or a vague atmosphere, some-
thing too subtle to call radical alterity or to name being/existence.
As we have seen in this book, the certainty of the deity’s manifestation
in spirit possession and the power of divine orders have been able to actu-
alise būta śakti before people’s eyes, and thus to show them the pathisch
aspects of their lives in relation to the realm of the wild. At the same time,
the attitudes of the people who concentrate on something yet to come and
just tranquilly sink into the realm of māya seem to better illustrate the pa-
thisch relationship between humans, deities, and the realm of the wild. The
figures of Jayānanda and the gaḍipatinārụ simply waiting for the coming of
the deities in the quiet precinct are especially suggestive of one’s experience
of being in between the realms of jōga and māya. They show the experience
 Conclusion 261
of temporarily leaving one’s ordinary self in the realm of jōga, approaching
the realm of māya by giving over oneself to pathos, yet still keeping oneself
to the realm of jōga by being a person in relationship with intimate others.

The life-world of the villagers and land and nature, būta śakti and the realm
of the wild, and the orders and forces of modernity: I have attempted in this
book to describe the relationships between the lives of the people in rural
South Kanara and their umwelt as the dynamic and ever-changing interac-
tions of humans and nonhumans in the entanglement of such elements. This
attempt shows that investigating the relationships between people and their
umwelt is nothing but the turning of our eyes to the limit, or critical phase,
of the umwelt. In other words, our endeavour is not only to understand how
the world in which people live their everyday lives with various beings is, but
also to come close to the vague verges of the world and look into the depths
with the people longing to interact with the śakti that fills the unknown
realm of māya.
Therefore, the ethnography of the umwelt is also the ethnography of the
virtual beyond its borders. The forms of people’s lives and their umwelts do
not just exist there, but are always becoming. They are transformed together
again and again through momentary encounters and interactions between
actors in the realm of jōga and virtue or śakti in the realm of māya, encoun-
ters and interactions occurring at the obscure and transforming verges of
the umwelt.
Glossary

Abbreviations of languages: Ka.—Kannaḍa; Ma.—Malayāḷam; Skt.—­

Sanskrit (other unmarked local terms are from Tuḷu)

Ācāri caste group whose members follow a patrilineal system and have
traditionally made their living as carpenters.
adikāra (Skt. adhikāra) authority, power; rank, post, office; administra-
tion, governing; responsibility.
Ādi Dravid ̣a original Dravidian.
Āgalu guttu name of a guttu family belonging to Tenka Yekkar village.
āja an oath; swearing; curse.
ajjererụdụ baidena property inherited from grandfather (maternal ances-
tral property).
ākarṣaṇɛ attraction; a ritual to invoke a spirit.
Alakɛ guttu the fifth-ranked guttu family in Perar.
aḷiya nephew; son-in-law.
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ (aḷiyakaṭṭụ) matrilineal system of inheritance.
Āḷupa (Āḷuva) name of the royal family in South Kanara in the early Āḷupa
period.
Āḷuvarasa name of a ruler in South Kanara in the early Āḷupa period.
amɛ period of ceremonial impurity after child birth, usually spanning
three, seven, ten, sixteen, forty-one, or forty-eight days.
aṇi a kind of ornamental halo-like adornment made of areca spathes,
cloth, tender coconut leaves, or metal materials, and worn on the back
by a būta dancer.
aramanege saluva bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa villages and cultivable land owned by
the state in the Vijayanagara period.
Arasu (Iśtadēvate, uḷḷākḷụ) one of the primary būtas in the village būta
shrine in Perar.
arụdala a lace-like design painted on the face of a būta dancer-medium.
asrāṇṇa a Brahman priest serving at the shrine to Bramma in Perar.
aṣṭamaṅgala praśne an astrological method of asking questions, involving
the placement of eight kinds of auspicious things, such as a lamp, mir-
ror, gold, milk, curds, fruits, etc.
264 Glossary
asudda (Skt. aśuddha) ritual pollution, ceremonial impurity.
āti the period from mid-July to mid-August in the Tuḷu calendar.
āvēśa possession by spirits or other supernatural powers; subservience;
zeal, enthusiasm; happiness.
baccirɛ the betel leave, Piper betle.
bagayat land suitable for cultivation of areca nuts and coconuts.
bailụ (bayilụ) a plain, a region with a multitude of rice fields, a wet land;
fertile fields situated on a low land.
bākimārụ a large open field at the doorstep; field in front of a house, usu-
ally growing one crop.
Balavāṇḍi one of the primary būtas of the village būta shrine in Perar.
bāḷu life, subsistence; land wealth in the Āḷupa period.
baṇḍārada koṭya the house where the sacred ornaments and other ritual
objects of the būtas are kept.
Baṇḍāri caste group whose members have traditionally made their living
as barbers.
Baṇṭa (Baṇṭerụ, Okkelakuḷu) one of the dominant caste groups in South
Kanara.
Baṇṭakaṁba the holy place at which Balavāṇḍi, the primary deity in Perar,
is believed to have appeared.
Bārakūru rājya one of the two parts of South Kanara in the Vijayanagara
period.
bari descent, clan, lineage, race, family, kith, and kin.
bārne a ritual in which food and drink are offered to the deity.
basava white cow.
baṭṭalụ kāṇikɛ kambuḷa one of the kambuḷa rituals dedicated to the būtas
and organised by the Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu in Perar.
Baṭṭrụ/Brahman caste group.
Belcaḍe caste group.
beśa the period from mid-May to mid-June in the Tuḷu calendar.
bhaṇḍāra-sthaḷa villages and cultivable land owned by the state in the Vi-
jayanagara period; land which was not tax-free in Kanara in the medi-
eval period.
bharti one of the holdings classified by the collector H. Viveash in 1834, on
which it was possible to pay all the tax levied by the fixed assessment.
bhukti (Skt. bhukti) enjoyment, pleasure, ownership.
birāvụ a silver stick.
boḷgoḍɛ a small decorated umbrella used in temple processions.
Bolinji Guḍḍɛ Bolinji Mountain.
bōṅtelụ the period from mid-October to mid-November in the Tuḷu
calendar.
boṭṭu (beṭṭu) land located at a higher level than bailụ, and dry except for
during the rainy season, which is suitable for single cropping.
brahmakalaśa a purification ritual undertaken when a deity’s statue is
enshrined.
 Glossary 265
Bramma (Bermerụ, Brammabermerụ, Brammadēvarụ, Nāgabramma) the
deity regarded as the highest-ranked būta in the village būta shrine in
Perar; the deity is often identified with the Hindu god Brahma.
brammaliṅga a stone statue enshrined in the Bramma shrine in Perar.
brammerɛ guṇḍa (Bramma guṇḍa) a shrine to Bramma in the village shrine
in Perar.
Brāṇabeṭṭu guttu (Bernoṭṭu guttu) the second-ranked guttu family in
Perar.
būta apotheosised local heroes or heroines, or the spirits of wild animals
dwelling in forests, which are generally regarded as deities.
būta kallụ a būta’s stone.
būta pattuṇḍu attraction of or possession by a būta.
būta śakti a būta’s power.
būtoda upadro misfortunes caused by būtas.
cākiridakulu workers serving the village būta shrine in Perar.
cāla gēṇi tenants employed on the basis of annual or seasonal contracts.
carva pedestal used in the būta ritual.
cāvaḍi open hall in a traditional manor house in South Kanara; an admin-
istrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period.
Chandrashekara the name of a king who appears in the oral epic of Perar.
daiva an honorific for a būta.
daivada jāgụ the land believed to belong to a būta dwelling in the land.
daivaśakti a deity’s power.
Dakṣiṇa Kannaḍa South Kanara.
darśana (Skt.) a particular type of blessing from the deity, conveyed
through the eyes.
darṣana vision, sight; trembling due to possession by deities.
dēśa the largest administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara
period.
dēva paṭṭe land transfer made in a deity’s name, in which the deity held
proprietary rights.
dharma (Skt. dhárma) ordinance, law; usage, practice, duty; virtue,
morality.
dōlu double-headed drum.
Durgā one of the Hindu goddesses, who is believed to be the wife of the
god Shiva.
enelụ the first crop planted in the month of beśa.
enne detonuni the ritual in which Balavāṇḍi receives sacred oil.
gaḍi boundary, limit, frontier; authority, ownership, headship,
responsibility.
gaḍipatinārụ the person who takes authority/responsibility (gaḍi); the pri-
mary patron of the village būta shrine in Perar.
gaggara sacred anklets worn by a būta dancer-medium.
gaggara decci the initial dance of a būta dancer-medium wearing sacred
anklets.
266 Glossary
gaggara dīpuni the dance of a būta dancer-medium as a part of the yearly
ritual.
gandha the sandalwood tree; the scent of flowers and sandalwood paste.
gēṇi the share of agricultural produce or amount paid by tenants or cul-
tivators to land owners; land tenancy or rent paid to landholders by
tenants in South Kanara in the Āḷupa period.
gēṇi okkelụ a tenant.
grāma a village; an administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayana-
gara period.
grāmada daiva a village deity.
grāmani a title for village administrative officers in the Vijayanagara
period.
guḍḍe a small hill, forest.
Guliga name of a būta.
guttu a manor house, the family responsible for organising the rituals in
a village; an administrative unit in a village in South Kanara in the Vi-
jayanagara period.
inām (ināmụ) a gift, presentation; tax-free land.
innūrāla arasu king over two hundred people.
jagattu one of the village administrative organisations in South Kanara in
the Vijayanagara period.
jāgeda daiva land būtas thought to dwell in the land.
Jain followers of Jainism. Jain landlords exercised power in administrative
districts called māgaṇe in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period.
jakkelaṇi a crescent-shaped flat decoration made of coconut leaves, worn
across the waist of a būta dancer-medium.
janasaṅkyɛpālụ division of property on the basis of population.
jārụdɛ the period from mid-November to mid-December in the Tuḷu calendar.
jāti caste group.
jōga physical world, human form, existence, reality; ecstasy, possession by
spirits or gods.
jōga āpini manifestation of būtas in spirit possession.
Jōgilɛ Bailụ Jōgi’s Plain.
Jumādi one of the powerful būtas in South Kanara.
kabarụ (Ka. kavalu) a sub-group of the matrilineal joint family called
kuṭuma.
kabarụpālụ division of property on the basis of kabarụ.
kadar mudi a long board which is a part of the costume of Arasu.
kaddatams ‘black books’ with revenue reports over several centuries,
which Thomas Munro insisted be maintained in Kanara.
kaḍsalɛ a silver sword used by the mukkāldi in the būta ritual.
kalaśanīrụ sacred water in a pot.
kalaśasnāna (kalaśaśuddhi) purification ritual for būta priests and dancer-­
mediums conducted by a Brahman priest.
kaḷasɛ a local measure of volume of grain equal to ten or fourteen sērụ.
 Glossary 267
kāli okkelụ domestic labourers who lived on landlords’ estates and per-
formed a variety of tasks.
kallāla an interim priest for the kambuḷa ritual in Perar.
Kallurṭi name of a lower-ranked (kāṭụ) būta.
Kallurṭi Paṅjūrli name of a būta.
kambharti one of the holdings classified by the collector H. Viveash in
1834, on which it was not possible to pay all the tax levied by the fixed
assessment.
kambuḷa (kambaḷa) a buffalo race in a paddy field or river canal; a field in
which the buffalo race takes place; a ritual performed in the rice field
for fertility.
kaṅciụl bali a ritual held for children’s health and for the resolution of
family problems.
Kandettāya one of the five būtas standing one rank below the three royal
būtas.
kānike tax paid by buyers of land to the state treasury in the Keḷadi
Nāyaka period.
Kāntiri Jumādi name of a būta.
kāraṇīkerụ a man with supernatural powers.
kaṭṭalɛ custom, practice; order, rule, commandment, regulation; habit,
convention.
katterimanɛ a wooden couch used in the būta ritual.
kaṭṭụ custom, heritage, observance; law, rule, regulation; traditional,
customary.
kaṭṭụ kaṭṭalɛ customs and traditions.
kaṭṭụ-kaṭṭụleda āvāra a ritual of offering food to a deity according to
custom.
kāṭụ wild, rough, rude; uncultured; untamed.
kāṭụ būta the wild, untamed būtas.
Kavaramane guttu the highest-ranked guttu family in Tenka Yekkar
village.
kēpla a flowering plant, Ixora coccinea.
kesarụkallụ pāḍuni a ceremony of laying a foundation stone.
Kinnimajālụ the general name of the place consisting of the Baṇṭakaṁba,
village būta shrine, and treasury in Perar.
Koḍamaṇittāya name of a būta.
koḍi jāpuni a ritual involving taking down a flag held on the final night of
the nēma.
koḍiyaḍi an altar on the premises of a būta shrine.
kola būta ritual.
kolakɛ the third crop planted in the month of puyiṅtelụ.
kōlu a stick.
koṁbu a wind instrument.
Koratāi Balardi a Jain woman who was said to be the head of the
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu.
268 Glossary
Kuḍubi (Kuḍubi-Gauḍa) caste group whose members follow the patrilineal
system and whose ancestors are said to have come from Goa.
kudurɛ a wooden horse used in the būta ritual.
kumerụ high and dry land where several kinds of vegetables suitable for
arid land are cultivated.
kumki a portion of forest or uncultivated land from which the cultivator
or owner of nearby land has the privilege of using wood as well as leaves
and twigs for manure, fodder, etc.
kuṭuma (Ka. kuṭumba) a matrilineal joint family, a lineage; a group of
relatives who practise the customary observances related to births and
deaths in a family.
kuṭumada būmi traditional family land.
kuṭumada daiva būtas worshipped by the members of a joint family.
Lingayat one of the dominant landlord castes in Karnataka.
māḍa a shrine for Arasu in the village būta shrine in Perar; a bell used by
the mukkāldi in the būta ritual.
maḍalụ muḍepuni ritual ornaments made from coconut fronds that sym-
bolise farmland greenery.
Maḍḍyelɛ (Maḍivāḷa) caste group whose members follow a matrilineal
system and traditionally have been engaged in washing clothes.
madhyastha a title for village administrative officers in the Vijayanagara
period.
maḍi cleanliness, purity; ritual purity.
madụmālụ a bride; a pubescent female.
madyaste the head of the second manor or guttu family in Perar.
māgaṇe a medium-sized administrative unit in South Kanara in the
­Vijayanagara period.
mahālaya the offerings and obsequies made to ancestors during the sec-
ond fortnight of the sixth lunar month.
mahālaya amāsɛ the new moon day of the mahālaya fortnight.
majalụ land suitable for double cropping.
makkaḷa kaṭṭụ patrilineal system of inheritance.
makkaḷa santāna inheritance from father to son.
malpāvunāye the manager of the būta ritual at the family level.
maṅcāvu a cot; a būta altar.
maṇḍala the largest administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayana-
gara period.
manɛ daiva būtas worshipped by the members of a household.
Maṅgaḷūru (Mangaluru) the town of Mangalore; one of the capitals of
South Kanara.
Maṅgaḷūru rājya one of the two parts of South Kanara in the Vijayana-
gara period.
Maṅgāra the old name of Mangaluru.
māni a būta medium.
Manibottu Brammērụ name of the deity enshrined in a shrine in Kaje.
 Glossary 269
manjotti a place near the kambuḷa field.
Manṣa caste group.
Mantradēvate one of the būtas categorised as kāṭụ būta, or the wild, un-
tamed būta.
Māri village goddess considered to be the presiding deity of epidemic dis-
eases; small pox.
marumakkattāyam the form of matriliny that prevailed among the Nayars
in Kerala.
māya mystery, disappearance.
māya āpuni vanishing of deities.
māyagarlu intangible entities.
māyaka vanishing, fleeting, passing away, disappearing.
māya maḷpuni making someone disappear.
māyi the period from mid-February to mid-March in the Tuḷu calendar.
mayiligԑ ritual pollution, ceremonial impurity.
mittakarɛ highland; the elevated area of a village or plain.
moktēsare a trustee, manager of a temple; a principal resident of a
village.
Moyli (Sapalya, Sērigāre, Dēvaḍige) caste group whose members follow a
matrilineal system.
mṛtyuñjayahōmo a ritual for saving lives.
muḍi a measure of grain, etc., amounting to about 39 kilograms or 42 seers.
muḍi gēṇi a unit of weight of paddy paid as rent.
muga a mask made of metal or areca-palm spathe.
muga pattuni (muga dīpuni) a ritual in which a Maḍḍyelɛ worker ties the
mask of Pilicāmuṇḍi onto the centre of aṇi.
mukkāldi a būta medium-priest; one of the ­village administrative organi-
sations in the Vijayanagara period.
mukkālụ mūji gaḷigɛ a period of time lasting for three seconds.
mūla a root, origin; family; main, principal, original; hereditary,
customary.
mūla gēṇi families of tenants working on a particular piece of land over
several generations.
mūla hakkụ ownership of land.
mūla stāna a place of origin.
mūlawargdār original or hereditary holder of an estate or warg.
mūliga farmers who permanently borrowed cultivable land from land
owners in the Āḷupa period.
Muṅḍabeṭṭu (Muṅḍoṭṭu) guttu the highest-ranked guttu family in Perar.
mūve rullākulu oṅji maṅcāvuḍu ullerụ three uḷḷākḷụ on one couch.
mūverullākulɛ cāvaḍi hall for the three kings.
Nādu the name of an earlier avatar of Balavāṇḍi.
naḍu cōrṇa a red banner used in the būta ritual.
nāḍu one of the administrative units in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara
period.
270 Glossary
nāga (Nāga) snake, cobra; deity in the form of a serpent.
nāgabana a grove reserved for Nāga shrines.
nāgamaṅḍala a night-long ritual dedicated to the Nāgas.
nāgarapaṅcami a ritual to the Nāgas performed by a Brahman priest in the
month of āti.
Nalike caste group whose members have played the role of būta dancer-­
mediums in South Kanara.
navaratna nine precious gems.
nēji young rice plants.
Nellidādi guttu the fourth-ranked guttu family in Bajpe village.
nēma the annual festival of a būta shrine, conducted with great pomp.
nēma decci a part of the performance of dancer-mediums in the nēma;
shivering of the būta dancer-medium’s body during the nēma.
nirnāla the period from mid-September to mid-October in the Tuḷu
calendar.
nissaṃtati (Ka.) childless.
nissaṃtati kavalu (Ka.) a kavalu that has no female member under the age
of 50 years and is hence regarded as having no possibility of maintain-
ing the matrilineal line.
niṣṭɛ firmness, devotion, being devout.
niyama (Skt. niyama) rules and regulations, system, order; religious obser-
vance; a rule, law.
niyama niṣṭɛ devoting oneself to the rule.
nuḍi korpuni blessings.
nuḍikaṭṭụ prophecy uttered by the būta incarnated in a medium; words of
judgement and instruction; reply given to the devotee’s problems, com-
plaints, etc.
nuga a yoke.
okkalu the smallest administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayana-
gara period.
okkelụ tenancy; agricultural tenancy; a tenant.
oṅjappa jōkulu the children of one mother.
pāḍdana oral epic.
padiari pattuni the ritual held in the evening of the day prior to the nēma.
paggu the period from mid-April to mid-May in the Tuḷu calendar.
Pambada caste group whose members follow a matrilineal system and have
played the roles of dancers as well as mediums of the higher-ranked bū-
tas in South Kanara.
Paṁbaderɛ Kōdi Pambada’s Hilltop.
pañcalōha an alloy of five metals, such as copper, brass, tin, lead, and iron.
pañcāmṛta abhiṣēka five kinds of liquids poured onto the stone of Nāga
during nāgarapaṅcami.
panikụ kulluni a ritual held during the kambuḷa ritual in Perar.
Paṅjūrli name of a būta.
pāpɛ a statue.
 Glossary 271
parakɛ a vow made to perform certain rituals or to offer gifts to deities.
Parava caste group whose members have played the role of būta dancer-­
mediums in South Kanara.
parva auspicious day on which festivals and rituals are held.
pātri (māni) a būta medium.
paṭṭa royal jurisdiction; land deed.
paṭṭadār landholder; holder of land deed.
paṭṭadārti female landholder; holder of land deed.
patterụ honourable members or elders of a village; head of a village.
paṭṭɛ record of right to landed property; registered document.
paṭṭi land donated to religious institutions in South Kanara in the Keḷadi
Nāyaka period.
Pejattāya a Brahman family that occupies the highest position in the hier-
archy regarding būta worship in Perar.
perārdε the period from mid-December to mid-January in the Tuḷu
calendar.
pergaḍe chieftain, headman; an honorific title.
Pērīrụ the lowest-ranked guttu family in Perar.
Perra the old name of Perar.
Pilicāmuṇḍi tiger būta, one of the main būtas in the village būta shrine in
Perar.
Poduvāl caste group. People in South Kanara often invite astrologers from
Kerala who belong to this community.
prabāvali a golden halo of the stone statue of Bramma.
prakṛti (Skt. prakṛiti) nature, the natural state of anything, the root,
cause, and origin.
prasāda food, flower, sandal, etc. offered to deities and given to devotees as
blessings of the deity; blessings.
pūjā (pūjana) worship, service, offering.
Pūjāri (Billava, Bayidya) caste group whose members follow a matrilineal
system, who have traditionally made their living as toddy tappers, and
have played an important role in būta worship as priests called pātri or
māni.
pūkarɛ an ornamental post decorated with flowers, set with specific rituals
in particular paddy fields and the kambuḷa fields to ward off evil spirits.
punarụ pratiṣṭhɛ a ritual conducted for the opening of a reconstructed
shrine.
puṇṇamɛ rituals for Arasu and Balavāṇḍi held from the first night to the
next morning of the nēma.
Puruṣa (Jōgi) caste group whose members follow a patrilineal system and
have traditionally made their living as musicians.
pūvɛ a flag-hoisting ritual held from the previous night to the morning of
the first day of the nēma.
puyiṅtelụ the period from mid-January to mid-February in the Tuḷu
calendar.
272 Glossary
raīyatwārī (ryotwari) the land tenure and tax system promoted by Thomas
Munro in Kanara.
rājanụ daiva royal būta.
rājanụ daiva savāri a path of the royal deity.
rājya the largest administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara
period.
Raktēśvari name of a female būta, believed to be the incarnation of the
mother goddess.
rasa sentiment.
rūpa form, shape; beauty; figure; garments of a būta dancer.
śakti the divine power of deities; the power, potency, or activating energy
incarnated in goddesses.
saṃtati family, progeny, offspring; lineage, race.
saṃtati kavalu a kavalu that contains at least one female member who is
not yet 50 years old and, hence, has a possibility of maintaining the
matrilineal line.
samudāya collective tax or contribution in the Āḷupa period.
sāna shrine.
saṅgīta a kind of music that is usually sung or performed vocally.
saṅkrāṅti the passage of the sun from one sign of the zodiac to another;
transition period.
śānta calmness; tranquillity.
śānta svabhāva the calm state of mind of the būta dancer-medium during
the possession ritual.
santāna lineage, family.
Śāstāvu the name of a place, and the 13th-ranked guttu family in Perar.
Śāstāvu Bramma a Hindu shrine worshipped by Kuḍubis in Mudu Perar.
sattigɛ umbrellas used in the būta ritual.
Satyadēvate name of a būta.
savāri riding; going out of doors or abroad, journey; arrival, coming;
roaming, wandering.
sāvirāla arasu king over one thousand people.
sērụ a measure of grain or liquid (about a kilogram).
sīme an administrative unit in South Kanara in the Vijayanagara period.
sōṇa the fifth solar month; a month considered to be auspicious.
stāna a place, location; dwelling place; position; shrine of gods and būtas.
sudda (Skt. śuddha) ceremonial purification, cleanliness.
suggi the period from mid-March to mid-April in the Tuḷu calendar; the
second crop planted in the month of bōṅtelụ.
Suṅḍoṭṭu guttu the first-ranked guttu family in Bajpe village.
suriya pāḍonuni a ritual performed at Baṇṭakaṁba as a part of the yearly
ritual in Perar.
sūtaka ritual impurity from the death of kinsmen; ritual impurity from
childbirth in the family; pollution due to menstruation.
svabhāva one’s natural temper, disposition, nature, natural behaviour.
 Glossary 273
taṟavāṭŭ (Ma.) the joint family in the matrilineal society among the Na-
yars in Kerala.
tastikụ the allowance granted by the government to a religious institution.
Tidyamuṅḍoṭṭu guttu the third-ranked guttu family in Perar.
tiri a skirt made of torn coconut leaves and worn by a būta dancer-medium.
tirtakarɛ lowland.
Tōdu guttu the highest-ranked guttu family in Permude village.
toḷasi a sacred basil, holy basil, Ocimum sanctum.
tuḍara bali a ritual held prior to the yearly ritual in Perar.
Tuḷunāḍụ the Tuḷu country; South Kanara.
tūvonunaye the manager of the būta ritual at the village level.
ujjālụ a swing.
ulaguttu sub-guttu.
ula kabarụ sub-kabarụ.
ulamūlagēṇi subtenant.
Uliya the 12th-ranked guttu family in Perar.
uḷḷākḷụ the honorific title of a person of high rank.
umbaḷi land without rent granted for the performance of certain services
in temples or other public services; tax-free land granted to cākirida-
kulu families in Perar; land required for the purpose of self-sufficiency
in the Keḷadi Nāyaka period.
ūru an inhabited place, village, town; one’s native place; people of a
locality.
uttāra land as a source of income for special use, such as for ritual pur-
poses, in the Keḷadi Nāyaka period.
vādya musical instrument.
vākụ piripuni a ritual to abrogate a vow in front of deity and reconstruct
the relationship between relatives; the ritual of the būtas’ judgment.
varaha the standard 3.4-gram gold coin used in the Vijayanagara period.
Vokkaliga one of the dominant landlord castes in Karnataka.
warg (varga) estate; tenure of land, proprietary right, proprietary land.
wargdār (vargadār) holder of a warg.
yajamāne (Ka. yajamāna) master, lord, head of a house, the senior member
of a family.
yajamāni (Ka. yajamāni) mistress, landlady; wife.
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Index
Note: Bold page numbers refer to tables; italic page numbers refer to figures and
page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes.
abhiṣeka (consecration rituals) 90;
pañcāmṛta 46
Abhishankar, K. 143, 206n1
Ācāri 39
actuality 14, 31n27
adikāra 54; in industry, undertaking
243–4
administrative system, in Vijayanagara
period 138–41
agency of deities and power of modern
law, conflict between 131–3
Alakɛ guttu families and deities,
pāḍdana on 67–8
Ali, Hyder 142, 161n6
aḷiyasantāna kaṭṭụ (aḷiyakaṭṭụ) 24, 27,
32n30, 38, 67, 135, 154, 169, 171–4,
180, 181n5, 255; and modern law,
encounter between 164–8
Aliyasantana family 166–8, 181n4
Aliyasantana Law 165–8
Aliyasantana system 165, 168, 170,
171, 183
alterity 6–10, 12, 15, 30n19, 49, 249,
250, 260
Āḷupa period, land tenure in 137
Amerindian ontology 13–14
animism 6, 18, 23, 94, 106n1
Anonyma (von Weizsäcker) 18
antidevelopment movement, led by local
magnate and village deity 213–14
Appadurai, A. 23–4, 26, 83, 111, 113,
114, 131, 133n1, 133n7
Arasu (uḷḷākḷụ) 48–51, 57, 58n1, 58n8,
60, 65–7, 70, 76, 78, 89, 99, 115,
140, 152; Balavāṇḍi’s acquisition of
a brammaliṅga 64–5; Balavāṇḍi’s
invitation to 63; and four guttu heads
62–3; gaggara decci 72–3; nēma decci
73–4; visits, Balavāṇḍi’s and 63–4
Arbuthnot, A. J. 142–5, 148
’Aré’aré ethnography 84–5
Arnold, D. 32n32
Asad, T. 30n16
astrological oracle 128–31
astrology (aṣṭamaṅgala praśne) 46
Avargal, B.G. 116
Aziz, A., 155, 156, 163n31
Babadzan, A. 114
Baden-Powell, B.H. 162n17
Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) 215, 234n3
bailụ 41
bākimārụ 43, 47n17
Balavāṇḍi 36, 37, 45, 48–57, 58n8, 59n11,
60, 62, 66, 68, 70–80, 81n3, 89–92, 99,
102, 115, 116, 122, 135, 140, 202, 203;
acquisition of a brammaliṅga 64–5;
and Arasu visits 63–4; and Bramma,
interaction between 90–2; fight with
Bramma 75–6; gaggara dīpuni 74–5;
invitation to Arasu 63; in Perar 50
Bale Semita 64–6
bāḷu 137
Baṇṭa 38–9, 52; landlord households,
families of 189; landlords, types of 186
Baṇṭakaṁba 48–9; ritual for 77–8
Baṇṭa landlords 27, 149, 16n1, 164,
183, 209, 225; land holdings and
acquisitions by, households 189–91,
190; inheritance from father to son
192–4; traditional family land and
‘grandfather’s land’, inheritance of
189, 191–2; types of 186
Bārakūru rājya 137
292 Index
bari 38
bārne 78
baṭṭalụ kānịkɛ kambulạ ritual see
kambuḷa ritual
Battle of Rakkasa-Taṅgaḍi (1565) 136
Baṭṭrụ/Brahman 40
Bavano 99
Bedi, H.P. 210
Behrend, H. 30n7
being/existence 10–15, 18, 19, 31n23,
248–52; encounter inquiries 20–2;
potential for transformation 19–20;
temporality of 19–20
Bengali zamindari system 144–5, 162n14
Benjamin, W. 95
Bergson, H. 14, 15, 30n18
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) 215, 235n4
Bhat, M.V.S. 165, 181n9, 181n11
Bhat, N.S. 149, 162n16, 206n1
Bhatt, P.G. 146, 161n4
bhukti samudāya 137
Bhuthala Pandya (Jaya Pandya) 166,
180n1
Bhuthala Pandya’s Kattu Kattale 166
Bird-David, N. 32n29, 106n1
BJP see Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)
Blane, T.L. 150
Blankenburg, W. 106n4, 106n14
blessing 78
Boddy, J. 30n7, 95, 96, 98
boṭṭu 41
Bramma (Bermerụ; Brammabermerụ)
51–2, 91; and Balavāṇḍi, interaction
between 90–2; battle with Nādu 61–2,
76; fight with (second-half ritual for
Balavāṇḍi) 75–6
brammaliṅga, Balavāṇḍi’s acquisition of
64–5
Breckenridge. C.A. (1976) 23–4, 26, 83,
133n1
Brückner, H. 31n26
BSP see Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP)
Busby, C. 32n28, 93n1
būta dancer, dilemma of 126–7
būtas: owners of the land 45–6;
curse over transfer of land rights,
fear of 202–4; in the midst of
development project 209–35; and
villagers, transactional network
between 87
būta śakti 1–2, 31n27
būta worship 1, 20, 25, 26, 28, 37, 39,
40, 46n3, 50, 68, 79, 80, 82, 83, 85,
88–90, 92, 94, 99, 106n6, 109, 110,
112, 113, 121, 135, 164, 169, 173,
174, 176, 180, 202, 203, 209, 217,
219, 220, 224, 227, 230–4, 236, 240,
243–6, 248, 250–3, 253, 254, 256,
258; agency in conflicts over village
shrine 109–34; and granting of land
44–5; people responsible for 52–8, 53;
role of 210–11; shrine and deities in
Perar 48–9; and social change 24–5;
as stronghold of resistance 211–12;
under the enactment and amendment
of modern law 173–4; in Vijayanagara
period 138–41; and villagers,
relationships between 23–4
cāla gēṇi 184, 206n1, 206n2, 207n3
Cameroon: modernity of witchcraft 3
Candea, M. 7, 32n29
Carrithers, M. 31n28
Carse, A. 246n1
Carsten, J. 93n1
cāvaḍi 139
Chitnis, K.N. 162n21
Claus, P.J. 31n26, 58n6
coherence 31n20
Collins S. 31n28
Comaroff, J. 3, 30n7
Comaroff, J.L. 3, 30n7
commensurability 30n17
Communist Party of India (CPI) 215,
234n3
community of property 169
Congress Party 238
constraints of life 12–15
contingency of life 12–15
Copeman, J. 32n28, 93n8
coping with modern law 179–80
Coppet, E. de 84, 85
‘Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian
Perspectivism’ (de Castro) 96
Couchman, M.E. 151
CPI see Communist Party of India (CPI)
crisis 16–18
Cuba: divination 12, 31n19; spirit
mediumship in 106n8
cursing goddess 130–1
‘Cutting the Network’ (Strathern) 84
Dalit 212–16
Damle, C.B. 144, 145, 148, 162n16
Daniel, E.V. 32n28, 93n1
Darhad shamanism 9
deity(ies): and social change 24–5; as
a ‘sovereign person’ 112–15; as the
supreme commander 218–19; waiting
for 258–61
 Index 293
de Laet, M. 246n1 Gangādara Rai 53–4, 69n1, 119, 120,
Deleuze, G. 13–15, 30n18 125, 126, 129
Deleuzian Other 14 Gell, A. 30n11, 110, 112–15, 133n6
democratisation expectation, and shrine Gellner, E. 30n16
development 125–6 Gender of the Gift, The (Strathern) 84
Der Gestaltkreis: Theorie der Einheit gēṇi 137
von Wahrnehmen und Bewegen [The Geschiere, P. 3, 30n8
Gestaltkreis: Theory of the unity Gestaltkreis theory 16–17, 19–20, 22, 23
of perception and movement] (von Gift, The (Mauss) 93n3
Weizsäcker) 16 gift-exchange 23, 93n8
dēśa 139 globalisation 5
Descola, P. 106n1 God Bala Madi Temple 152
dēva paṭṭe 141 Gowda, K.C. 28–9, 138–40
devil worship 2–3 Graeber, D. 13
Dirks, N.B. 112, 131, 133n1 grāma 139
disputes over land 224–30 ‘grandfather’s land’, inheritance of 174,
dividuality 82–4 191–2
dividual persons 20, 24, 26, 83–8, 170–2, group composition: of domestic
254–5 labourer households 188, 189; of
domestic labourer households, group landlord households 188, 188, 189; of
composition of 188, 189 other households 188, 189; of tenant
domestic labourers (kāli okkelụ) households 188, 189
184 guḍḍɛ 42–4, 66, 86–8
Dugganna Baidya 64 Guha, R. 32n32
Dumont, L. 32n28, 91, 93n9 Gundya’s Janana 62
Durgā 126, 130, 134n15
Harper, E.B. 93n9
Eck, D.L. 114 Harris, T. 150
Empson, R. 106n5 Henare, A. 12, 30n11, 30n17
Englund, H. 30n9 Hindu Religious Endowments Board
enne detonuni 74 (HRE Board) see ‘Madras Hindu
essentialism: radical 5, 7, 14, 250; Religious Endowments Act (Madras
strategic 10 Act II of 1927, HRE Act)’
ethnography 11 Hindu Religious Institutions and
Euro-American 6, 8 Charitable Endowments Act, 1997
Europe: spirit possession 4 119, 133n13
exchange value 4 Hindu Succession Act, 1956 (Act No. 30
of 1956) 165, 174, 181n9, 207n11
Fabian, J. 30n8 Hindu temples, historical transformation
Fourth Battle of Mysore (1799) 142 of 111–12
Freeman, R. 32n28 ‘Hindu Transactions: Diversity without
Fuller, C.J. 90, 93n9, 93n12, 112, 114, Dualism’ (Marriott) 82–3
133n1, 133n2, 133n7 Hirose, K. 31n24
Holbraad, M. 12, 30n11, 30–1n19, 106n6
Gad, C. 7, 30n10 Horton, R. 30n13
Gadgil, M. 32n32 HRE see Hindu Religious Endowments
gaḍipatinārụ 53–7, 59n11, 68, 71–4, 79, Board (HRE Board); Madras Hindu
88, 104, 119, 121, 122, 124–7, 149, Religious Endowments Act (Madras
203, 220, 239, 242, 244, 246, 252, 253, Act II of 1927, HRE Act)
259, 260 human–nonhuman relations 23, 24;
gaggara decci (first-half ritual to Arasu) exchange of perspectives between 96–9
72–3 Humphrey, C. 106n5
gaggara dīpuni (first-half ritual for Husserl, E. 106n4
Balavāṇḍi) 74–5 hybrid personhood, in ritual transactions
gandha 103–4 84–5
294 Index
IL&FS see Infrastructure Leasing and
Financial Services (IL&FS)
impurity 89
inām 141, 155, 156
Inden R.B., 93n1
Indian National Congress 155–6
Indian Strategic Petroleum Reserves
Limited (ISPRL) 237
individualism 4
individual property 170–2
individual rights, pursuit of 180, 198–9,
204–6, 255
industrial plant, umwelt in 28, 210,
236–47, 250, 256, 257; adikāra
in industry, undertaking 243–4;
explosion on path of būta 237–8;
intimacy with land and deities in
MSEZ 238–40; malfunction of
machine and ritual, organised by
Japanese engineers 241; pipeline
connection with a banyan tree 241–3;
threatening industrial plant 240–3;
towards new umwelt 245–6
Infrastructure Leasing and Financial
Services (IL&FS) 231n1
Ingold, T. 32n29
inheritance: from father to son 192–4;
of ‘grandfather’s land’ 191–2; of
traditional family land 191–2
Ishii, M. 30n7, 30n9, 31n27, 93n12, 102,
106n14, 133n6, 246n1, 247n4, 247n5
ISPRL see Indian Strategic Petroleum
Reserves Limited (ISPRL)
Jackson, M. 31n28
Jain 67–8, 137, 138, 140, 147, 161n6
caste (jāti) 37, 38, 44, 52–3, 53, 58n7, 89,
117, 152, 152, 153, 153, 183, 187, 187,
188, 188, 189
Jayānanda-Pilicāmuṇḍi 76–8, 124, 127
Jensen, C.B. 7, 30n10
jōga 21, 22, 31n26, 31n27, 94, 101–5,
113, 132, 234, 246, 251–3, 257–61
Johnson, P.C. 4, 106n3
Jumādi’s agency: officers in 219; violent
land acquisition and 217–18
kabarụ (kavalu) 160, 168, 170, 171,
173, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180,
181n9, 181n12, 182n17, 190, 191, 192,
198–200, 205, 255; land tenure of 174
kambuḷa ritual 42, 43–4, 47n17, 47n21,
47n22, 85–7, 252
Kanaka Bottu Janana 62
Kanara Chamber of Commerce and
Industry (KCCI) 234n1
kaṅciụl bali 70
Kandettāya 64–5, 69n8, 76
kānike 142
Kapferer, B. 95, 106n2
Karnataka Industrial Areas
Development Board (KIADB) 213,
234n1
Karnataka Land Reforms (Amendment)
Act, 1973 (Karnataka Act No. 1 of
1974) 155, 157–60, 163n31, 179, 180,
183, 188; būtas’ curse over transfer of
land rights, fear of 202–4; duties to
the kuṭuma and pursuit of individual
rights 204–6; lost land due to land
reform 195–7, 195; tenants and land
reforms 200–2; village landlords,
application for land rights by 197–200
Karp, I. 31n28
kaṭṭụ (customary law) 23, 52, 57, 79, 80,
109, 118, 121, 123, 124, 127, 131, 132,
199, 244, 254
KCCI see Kanara Chamber of
Commerce and Industry (KCCI)
Keḷadi Nāyaka period, land system in
141–3, 161n3
Kelinga’s Janana 62
Keller, M. 95, 98
kesarụkallụ pāḍuni 239
KIADB see Karnataka Industrial Areas
Development Board (KIADB)
Kimura, B. 14, 18, 31n23, 31n27
Kimura, S. 247n6
Kinni Majalu Ishta Devata Balavandi
Pilichamundi Daivastanam 116
Kohn, E. 30n10, 32n29, 106n5
kōla (būta rituals) 139
Koratāi Balardi 45, 64, 65, 67, 68, 140
Krishi Bhumi Sanrakshan Samiti 213,
214, 234n2
Kuḍubi 39
kumerụ 41, 41
kuṭuma (kuṭumba) 27, 38, 55, 68,
90, 93n10, 129, 139, 148, 152, 154,
159–60, 162n18, 165, 169, 172, 183,
190–9, 202, 207n8, 207n11, 209, 250,
254–5; duties to 204–6; land tenure
of 174; in Madras Aliyasantana Act
of 1949 168; partition by kavalu
170; partition plan for 174–9, 177–8;
property of 170; under the enactment
and amendment of modern law 173–4,
179–80

Laidlaw, J. 32n28, 93n8
Lambek, M. 31n28
Land Acquisition Act, 1894 235n7
land acquisitions: conflict between guttu
families and politics of 220–4; violent,
and Jumādi’s agency 217–18
landholder 27, 40, 136, 137, 143, 144,
147–50, 153, 159, 161n1, 161n5,
162n16, 193, 198, 203, 206n2, 214
landlord as broker, for development
project 223–4
landlord family, immigration of 226–8
landlord households: group composition
of 188, 188, 189; land holdings and
acquisitions by 189–91, 190
land reform: 1947–1956 155–6;
1956–1971 156–7; 1971–1977 157–60;
after independence 155–61; lost land
due to 195–7, 195; as ‘owners of land’
183–208; in village society 185–6,
185, 186
land rights: transfer of, fear of the būtas’
curse over 202–4; by village landlords,
application for 197–200
land tenure 1, 23, 24, 25, 27, 45, 133,
164, 183, 191, 205, 206, 209, 226,
232, 253, 256; in Āḷupa period 137;
in colonial South Kanara 141–9; in
early twentieth-century Perar 149–55;
historical changes in South Kanara
135–63; of kabarụ 174; in Keḷadi
Nāyaka period 141–2; of kuṭuma
174; land characteristics and tax
policy 148–9; Munro’s intentions
and ‘invention of tradition’ 145–8; in
pre-colonial South Kanara 136–41;
ryotwari system 142–5, 147–8,
160; transformation of 160–1; in
Vijayanagara period 137–8
land tribunal 158, 185, 186, 198–200,
205, 206, 254
Latour, B. 30n11
Leach, J. 30n9
Lienhardt, G. 106n10
Luig, U. 30n7
Lukes, S. 31n28
Maclean, C.D. 162n17, 162n22, 206n1
Maḍḍyelɛ 40
Madhava, K.G.V. 141, 161n6, 161n11
Madras Aliyasantana Act, 1949 (Act
No. 9 of 1949) 27, 165, 166, 168–70,
174, 175, 180, 181n7, 209; kuṭumba
in 168
Index 295
Madras Aliyasantana (Mysore
Amendment) Act, 1961 (Act No. 1 of
1962) 165, 170, 181n7, 207n11
Madras Endowments and Escheats
Regulation, 1817 (Regulation VII of
1817) 115
Madras government 144–6, 148
Madras Hindu Religious and Charitable
Endowments Act 1951, 133n13, 221
Madras Hindu Religious Endowments
Act (Madras Act II of 1927, HRE
Act) 24, 115, 116, 118, 133n9
Madras Legislative Council 115
Madras Presidency 150, 162n13, 165
Madurāya Pejattāya 63
māgaṇe 139
magic: in non-Western societies 2
majalụ 41
malfunction of machine and ritual,
organised by Japanese engineers 241
Mangalore Circle Temple Committee 116
Mangalore Refinery and Petrochemicals
Limited (MRPL) 211, 235n5, 240, 241
Mangalore Special Economic Zone
(MSEZ) 210–12, 225–9, 232,
233, 234n1, 236, 237, 242–6;
antidevelopment movement, led
by local magnate and village deity
213–14; būta worship, as stronghold
of resistance 211–12; deity, as the
supreme commander 218–19; intimacy
with land and deities in, rediscovering
238–40; local movements against
213–16; officers in ritual and Jumādi’s
agency 219; protest against company
and landlords by small farmers
214–16; violent land acquisition and
Jumādi’s agency 217–18
Mangalore Special Economic Zone
Limited (MSEZL) 210, 211, 234n1,
235n5, 236
Mangaluru 2, 29n3
Maṅgaḷūru rājya 137
market economy 4
Marriott, M. 23, 82–4, 92–3n1
marumakkattāyam 168, 181n5
Masquelier, A. 5, 30n7
material possession 4
matriliny 24, 25, 27, 67, 136, 154, 155,
161, 164, 165, 168, 171, 172, 181n5,
183, 194, 206, 253–5, 256
Mawri: modernity and occult 4–5
māya 21, 22, 31n26, 68, 94, 101–3, 105,
132, 243, 246, 251–3, 257–61
296 Index
māyi 1
Mead, G.H. 95, 106n4
Menon, D.P. 181n6
Merleau-Ponty, M. 31n24, 106n4
Meyer, B. 30n8
mimesis 95, 96, 98; multiple 100–1,
103, 253
mimetic art of būta mediums 99–101
mimetic faculty 95
Mines, M. 32n28
modernity 30n7, 30n15, 95, 106n2,
248–58, 261; theories of 2–5; of
witchcraft 3, 4, 9
Mol, A. 246n1
Mongolia: shamanism in 9
Moore, H.L. 30n7
Moore, M.A. 181n6
Moyli 39–40
MRPL see Mangalore Refinery and
Petrochemicals Limited (MRPL)
MSEZ see Mangalore Special Economic
Zone (MSEZ)
MSEZL see Mangalore Special
Economic Zone Limited (MSEZL)
muḍi gēṇi 175, 176, 181n15
Mudu Perar 1, 29n4, 35–47, 149, 183,
187, 189, 191–4, 207n3, 207n11,
208n12, 235n9; būta shrine and
deities in 1, 48–59; domestic
labourers in 184; land, forests, and
deities 39–46, 41, 42; landlords and
land reforms in 195–7, 195; land
tenure and paṭṭadār/paṭṭadārti,
in early twentieth-century 150–5,
151–4; social composition of 37–41,
37, 38; tenants and land reforms in
200–2; tenants in 184; village shrine
in 48–50
muga pattuni (muga dīpuni), 77
mukkāldi 39, 48, 51, 55–6, 67, 68, 70–2,
74, 75, 81n2, 101, 102, 106n13, 122,
127, 139
Mukkāldi-Balavāṇḍi 71, 75–80, 81n4,
122–4, 127
mūla gēṇi 162n26, 179, 184, 199, 200,
206n1, 206n2, 207n3, 207n8
mūliga 137
multinaturalism 5
Muṅḍabeṭṭu guttu 27, 29, 36, 43, 44,
47n17, 47n24, 52–5, 58, 60, 64, 66,
68, 69n5, 115, 119, 121–3, 125–8,
132, 134n14, 149, 150, 153, 154, 161,
162n18, 172–6, 181n15, 182n16,
185, 186, 188, 191, 194, 198, 199,
201–5, 223, 259; astrological ritual
and 129, 130; Brahman priest, hiring
of 115; coping with modern law
179–80; divide inheritance of land
in 161; enactment and amendment
of modern law 173–4; families and
deities, pāḍdana on 67, 121; family
property partition plan 177–8; lands
applied for rights in 186; and shrine
development 125
Munda Chetty v. Thimmaju Hengsu
(1863) 166
Munn, N.D. 93n5
Munro, T. 142–50, 162n13
Muttaya Shetty 175, 176, 179, 180,
182n17
Muzarai Department 222
Mysore (Personal and Miscellaneous)
Inams Abolition Act 156
Mysore (Religious and Charitable)
Inams Abolition Act 156
Mysore Alienated Villages (Protection
of Tenants and Miscellaneous
Provisions) Act 156
Mysore Land Reforms Act, 1961
(Mysore Act No. 10 of 1962) 155–9,
163n30
Mysore Land Reforms Bill 156
Mysore Tenancy and Agricultural Land
Laws Committee 156
Nāḍu 139; battle with Brammabermerụ
61–2, 76; birth of 60; travels with
king 61
Nāga 45–6
nāgarapaṅcami 45–6
Nalike 1 40, 56
National Planning Commission 157
Nellidādi guttu 216–24, 232, 233,
238, 243
nēma 26, 36, 48–51, 53, 55, 57, 59n11,
59n13, 60, 62, 65–8, 72–4, 76, 78–80,
81n1, 82, 86–92, 103, 104, 106n3, 119,
125, 126, 131, 135, 139, 218, 219, 222,
259; conflict in, and judgement of the
deity 122–4; day before 70–1
nēma decci (second-half ritual to Arasu)
73–4
neoliberalism 5, 248
New Mangalore Port Trust (NMPT)
234n1
Niger 5
NMPT see New Mangalore Port Trust
(NMPT)

OBC see Other Backward Classes (OBC)
occult: economies 3–5; modernity
and 2–5
Oil and Natural Gas Corporation Ltd
(ONGCL) 234n1
ONGCL see Oil and Natural Gas
Corporation Ltd (ONGCL)
Ontisches 18–20, 251, 258
ontological anthropology 248–52
ontological questions 5–7
ontological reality of the other 5–10
ontological self-determination 5–8, 14,
15, 249, 250
ontological turn (OT) 6–10, 30n11,
30n12, 250; being/existence 10–15;
critiques of 7–8
ontology: Amerindian 13–14; traditional
use of the term 13
Osella, C. 32n28
Osella, F. 32n28
OT see ontological turn (OT)
Ota, N. 143, 148
Other Backward Classes (OBC) 37,
46n7, 234n3
pāḍdana (oral mythological epics) 23, 26,
36, 56–8, 60–9, 69n1, 73, 75, 76, 79,
100, 104, 121, 135, 140, 244; of Arasu
62–5; on guttu families and deities
67–8; of Nadu 60–2; of Pilicāmuṇḍi
65–6
padiari pattuni 70
Padu Perar 29n4, 35–47; būta shrine and
deities in 1, 48–59; domestic labourers
in 184; Kinni Majalu Ishta Devata
Balavandi Pilichamundi Daivastanam
116; land, forests, and deities 39–46,
41, 42; Shastavu Brahma Balavandi
Pilichamundi Daivastanam 116; social
composition of 37–41, 37, 38; tenants
in 184; village shrine in 48–50
Pambada 1, 40; dancer-mediums 56–8
pañcāmṛta abhiṣēka 46
Pani, N. 158, 159
panikụ kulluni 47n22
Paṅjūrli būta 139
Parry, J. 32n28, 93n2, 93n3, 133n4,
246n1
partition plan, for kuṭuma land 174–9,
177–8
Pathisches 18–19, 20, 251, 258
pathos 18, 251–2, 259, 261
paṭṭadār 136, 145, 148, 159, 161n1,
161n5, 162n18, 162n27, 173, 176,
Index 297
182n17; caste/type of 152; land
holding and land tax assessment of
149–55, 151–4
Pedersen, M.A. 9, 30n15, 106n1, 106n5
Pējāvara Mutt 152, 162n26, 179, 186,
198, 199, 207n8, 227–9
Pels, P. 30n7
people’s intentions, complication of
124–31; būta dancer, dilemma of
126–7; democratisation expectation
and shrine development 125–6; guttu
family from the shrine, withdrawal of
126–7
Perar see Mudu Perar; Padu Perar
Perara Sanskriti Protishtāna (Perar
Cultural Committee) 131
Perar Shastavu Brahma Bhoota 116
pergaḍe: under the enactment and
amendment of modern law 173–4
permeability 94–6
permeable person 95–6
perspective 24, 26, 88, 252, 253; mimetic
art of būta mediums 99–101; playing
with 94–106; ritual transaction and
transformation of the self 103–5;
spirit possession and permeable
person 95–6
perspective exchange, between humans
and nonhumans 96–9
perspectivism 26; Amerindian
13, 96–7
personhood 4, 18, 23, 31–2n28, 82,
93n1, 96; dividual 82–4; hybrid, in
transactions 84–5
Piaget, J. 106n4
Pilicāmuṇḍi 51, 65–6, 89, 123, 127; ritual
for 76–7
Pinney, C. 133n6
pipeline connection with a banyan tree
241–3
Pocock, D.F. 93n9
Poduvāl 134n14
pollution 88–90, 93n10, 93n11, 211
possession 55, 77, 110, 259; material 4;
spirit 3, 4, 23, 95–6
possibility 14
prakṛiti 29n2
prasāda 1, 29–30n6
Presler, F.A. 133n1, 133n13
Pūjāri 37, 39, 43, 52, 55, 64, 73, 75, 78,
128, 189, 193, 197–9, 201–3
pūkarɛ 43, 47n19
purity 88–91
Puruṣa 40; musicians 1
298 Index
radical constructivist approach 12
radical essentialism 5, 7, 14, 250
Raheja, G.G. 32n28, 93n2
Rajapurohit, B.B. 181n8
rājya 139
Ramesh, K.V. 136–9, 146, 147
Ranger, T. 30n9
Rao, B.S., 142
Rao, G.K. 167
rasa 103–4
Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS)
235n4
rationality 4, 9, 30n13, 125; modern 4, 6,
8, 9–11, 30n13, 125, 249, 250
Read, A. 143, 149–50
reality 14
‘realm of the wild, the’ 1, 20, 21, 29n5,
91, 92, 122, 135, 204–6, 218, 232–4,
236, 244–6, 248, 252, 255–8, 260, 261
registration records of land rights
application 185–6, 185, 186
Religious Endowments Act of 1863 (Act
XX of 1863) 115
religious institutions in South India,
modern administration of 110–12
religious leader fasting against
development project 228–30
Revenue Board 149, 150, 173, 176
Revenue Settlement Office,
Mangalore 151
Right to Fair Compensation and
Transparency in Land Acquisition,
Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act,
2013 235n7
ritual community 81, 88, 165, 169, 172, 244
ritual murder 3
ritual pollution, wild śakti and 88–92
ritual transaction, and transformation of
the self 103–5
ritual transactions between deities
and people 78–81; circulation of
śakti 85–8; divided persons 85–8;
dividuality 82–4; hybrid personhood
84–5
rivalries over deities 224–30
Rosenthal, J. 95
RSS see Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh
(RSS)
rūpa 103
ryotwari system 142–5, 147–8, 160,
162n17
sacred wildness 1, 21, 252, 258
sacrifice 78, 93n6, 166
Sakabe, M. 106n4, 106n14
śakti (divine power) 1–2, 20–2, 29n2;
circulation of 85–8; and kambuḷa
ritual 43–4, 85–6; and ritual pollution
88–92; transaction of 82–93; untamed
90–2
Samajwadi Party (SP) 215, 234n3
samudāya 137
Sanders, T. 3–4, 30n7
Sangh Parivar 235n4
Sanskritisation 47n13, 52, 58n7, 89
Santo, D.E. 106n8
Śāstāvu Bramma 128
Satanism 3
Sausdal, D.B. 7, 8, 13, 30n10
Save the Cultivated Land Committee 213
Sax, W.S. 32n28, 93n1
Scheduled Castes (SC) 37, 46n4, 234n3
Scheduled Tribes (ST) 37, 46n4, 234n3
Schütz, A. 106n4
Sekine, Y. 91, 93n9
self-reflexivity 98, 103
seṭṭikāṟa 138
Sēvā Samiti 119
shamanism 23, 96, 97; Darhad 9; in
Mongolia 9
Shastavu Brahma Balavandi
Pilichamundi Daivastanam 116
Shiva, V. 32n32
shivering deity 130–1
shrine development, democratisation
expectation and 125–6
shrine reconstruction 127–8
Siberian Yukaghirs 98
sīme 139
Singh, K.S. 47n14
small farmers, protest against company
and landlords by 214–16
Smith, F.M. 4, 96
social body 103–5
Sontheimer, G.D. 133n3
South Africa: occult economy 3
South Kanara District Temple
Committee 116
SP see Samajwadi Party (SP)
spirit possession 2, 4, 21, 23, 28, 30n7,
31n26, 51, 56, 57, 94–6, 102, 105,
106n2, 115, 122, 225, 248, 251, 259,
260; in non-Western societies 3
Sri Lanka, demonic possession in 95
Srinivas, M.N. 58n7
Śrī Pārtasārati Svāmi temple 111
SSRM see Survey and Settlement
Register, Mudu Perar Village, No. 53
(SSRM)
ST see Scheduled Tribes (ST)

Stambach, A. 30n13
Stein, B. 143, 145–8, 162n21
Stoller, P. 95
Strathern, A. 31n28
Strathern, M. 24, 26, 30n11, 84–5, 87,
93n4
Sturrock, J. 142, 146, 149, 162n17, 165,
206n1
subject 16–18
substance-code 24, 26, 83–8, 92–3n1,
93n5, 93n8, 101, 105, 169
śudda maḷpuni 93n10
Sultan, Tipu 136, 142, 161n6
suriya pāḍonuni 81n7
Survey and Settlement Register, Mudu
Perar Village, No. 53 (SSRM) 150–4,
162n27
Swain, A. 32n32
Swancutt, K. 106n5, 106n8
Tambiah, S.J. 30n13
Tanabe, A. 32n31, 161n9
Tanaka, M. 90, 93n9, 93n11
Taussig, M. 2–3, 95
tax policy 148–9
Taylor, A.C. 106n7
tenant households, group composition
of 188, 189
Thimmaiah, G. 155, 156, 163n31
Thurston, E. 32n33, 46n8, 46n9, 47n10,
47n11, 47n13–15, 134n14
Tio: Bolivian miners’ worship of 2
Togo, Gorovodu possession in 95
traditional family land, inheritance of
191–2
traditional rights, crisis of 118–22
transactional networks 24–6, 28, 44,
79, 82, 83, 85–8, 93n8, 94, 105,
111–15, 124, 132, 165, 169, 172, 206,
236–7, 240, 241, 243–5, 252, 254, 255,
257, 258
transformation of the self, ritual
transaction and 103–5
trusteeship of village būta shrine in
1930s, disputes over 115–18
tuḍara bali 71
Tuḷu 21
Tumbe Jāla Janana 62
Turner, T. 97
Uchiyamada, Y. 93n5
Učida, N. 181n8
umbaḷi 141
umwelt 70, 82, 94, 105, 109, 234,
248, 251–2, 256, 257, 260, 261;
Index 299
anthropology of 1–32; in industrial
plant 236–47; for the people 21–2
untamed śakti 90–2
Upadhyaya, U.P. 31n26, 32n30, 47n17,
47n19, 47n22, 58n5, 58n6, 133n5
ūru 139
uttāra 141
vākụ piripuni 48, 51, 66, 70, 76–8, 81n9,
122, 123
VHP see Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP)
Vigh, H.E. 7, 8, 13, 30n10
Vijayanagara period: administrative
system and būta rituals in 138–41;
land tenure in 137–8
Vilaça, A. 106n7
village deity, regaining 230–4
village landlords, application for land
rights by 197–200
village shrine, in Perar 48–50
village society, land reforms in 185–6,
185, 186
Villagewar Resister of Applications
Filed under Section 48-A before the
Tribunal (VRA) 185, 198
virtuality 12–15, 31n27, 253, 258
Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) 228,
235n4
Viveash, H. 150
Viveiros de Castro, E. 6–8, 13–14, 24,
30n11, 30n14, 30n16, 96–7, 106n1,
106n6
von Uexküll, J. 15–16, 251
von Weizsäcker, V. 15–20, 31n20, 31n25,
98, 251
VRA see Villagewar Resister of
Applications Filed under Section 48-A
before the Tribunal (VRA)
Wadley, S. 93n9
Wastell, S. 12, 30n11
West Africa, Hauka possession in 95
wild būtas, worship of 225–6, 253–8
Willerslev, R. 24, 32n29, 98, 106n1,
106n6
Wilson, B.R. 30n13
Winthereik, B.R. 7, 30n10
witchcraft, modernity of 3, 4, 9
yajamāna/yajamāni 167, 169, 181n3
Yatish-Balavāṇḍi 74–6
zamindar 143, 162n14
zamindari 144, 145, 148, 156, 162n14
zombies 3